Running. Just running. The feeling of running is easy to define. The sadness of running from everything you've ever known, leaving it all behind you like some forgotten doll. The anticipation of running someplace, hopefully better than the place you're running from. Then there's that overlying terror of pursuit, the fear of being caught because you're running. The pain of knowing your pursuer, the agony of it being your loved one.
This is what she thought as she ran, chest heaving, her bare callused feet making soft noises on the barren landscape. Yes, she was running. Running from her life, but the twist was she wasn't running alone. She shot a quick glance at her companion, and smiled. The smile melted as she heard the soft 'thwum thwum' of her pursuer's mount, and the scream it made matched her own as it blocked out the moon...
Before all ends, there is a beginning. This story is no exception. It all started in a small town nestled away in the shadows of Du Weldenvarden, on the banks of Isenstar Lake, Marna a few miles in the southeast, marking the mostly flat landscape with a large mound.
This was where she lived, in the village of Ersha, where the food was limited to the small game hens and pheasants of the plains and the rare small doe of the forest. Her name is Talma, first- born and only child of her father Pica and her late mother Felicia. As such, she was treated as a son, a gift as well as a curse.
She knew how to fight, to hunt, to track, and to ride a horse. She was educated as well as any boy, and was pushed to become smarter, to think for herself. Granted, she worked harder on the farm, far harder than the other girls. Her hands were rough and calloused, her frame strong.
She brushed her dirty hands on her apron and wiped her brow before plowing again, her small feet digging into the soft soil she had turned. She inhaled the metallic smell, feeling the sun soak into her back through the thin cotton shirt, listening to the soft buzz of bees and chirp of birds faraway in the forest.
"Talma!" She heard a gruff voice call, and she smiled, turning her head and tucking some of her deep red-brown hair behind her ear.
"Yes, father?" She called, leaning against the plow. He walked out, his old age only noticeable in his grey-streaked hair. He stood tall and strong, looking as well as any young man in the village.
"Hitch Jonre to the cart." He grunted, and tossed her a skirt ad a money-pouch. "And put that over yer breeches." he added, heading inside. She chuckled, rolling her eyes. 'Old man means well... I think.' she thought, pulling the skirt on and tying the money pouch onto her belt.
She walked to the stables, leading a large dapple grey out. "Let's go Jonre." She murmured, stroking his long nose. She fitted him into the pulling gear, and hitched him to the open- backed cart before hauling herself into the driver's bench.
She shook the reins and clucked at the gelding, which obligingly moved to the front of the hut. "Father!" She called, moving aside when we drew near. He pulled himself up, taking the reins. "Talma. That money is yours. Enjoy the market." he grunted out, and she nodded. "Of course father." She said softly, and quietly waited to arrive.