Sparks of the All-Forge - Preludes

Prelude 4- Marilyn the Huntsman - To Have One Fault

"Bloody lords and their stupid, forging requests!" Curses and a tirade exploded from Terince. Marilyn nearly fell out of her horse as she winced. Very rarely did her mentor resort to such language, especially within earshot of other people. It wasn't very becoming of a Huntsman. Not one bit. Marilyn's tan gelding, Ides, nearly stopped, but continued on when he realized that she had righted herself as quickly as one might expect.

Such a good lad. If only Terince could compose himself so.

That wasn't particularly fair. Terince had already ended his outburst and was on to brooding silently. The Huntsman was a normally mild mannered, thoughtful, slow to yell, and quick to shame Marilyn when she exhibited the opposites of those qualities.

She could recall a time where an oath she had picked up from Yoric and his teacher had her sleeping in stables for a week, living off of the land for her dinner. Mother forsaken men and their Mother forsaken words. She had known thirteen birthdays at that point. Four had passed since and small bits of anger still swelled within her when that week came to mind. Scents of hay and horse dung still caused an involuntary squinting of her eyes now and again.

I will put you in the stables when I see you next, Yoric. Just you wait. Ides snorted. She couldn't tell whether he thought she was being silly or if he was providing support to his rider. She decided to think it was the latter.

Having finally taken total control of her gelding, Marilyn turned to her mentor. "Are you going to talk about it?" Prodding was often necessary with this introverted man, even more so when his bald head was so red that it'd give Prairie tomatoes a run for its money, or when his brown eyes could bore holes through bark.

"Soon. Ride tall and proud. Like a huntsman."

She could do that. Straightening her back, squaring her shoulders, and looking ahead, she rode on.

Absolom's Hearth was not the standard for what most folks might consider a backwater village. It had every little characteristic one might think of when thinking of an isolated town such as this.

One road ran through the Hearth and had homes on each side before it ended right in front of the Mayor's mansion. The mansion was only that by association with the other homes. Mayor Janus's home had the same pointed, thatch roof that was present in the rest of the village houses. On the other hand, within it were three bedrooms and a kitchen with a window so big that one could watch him have dinner if they so chose. There had been no need for a third bedroom. Janus's niece, Dorene, was his only living relative. Marilyn had only seen the girl once. A brief moment, that had been. The village Mystic, a tightly wound Solrusian woman named Natalia, had picked the child up for some tutelage in her profession. Marilyn had seen the Mystic instructing her student over the properties of turmeric.

The roadside homes had a kitchen and a bedroom. That was it. It mattered not how many belonged to a family. Their kitchens served as dining rooms, living rooms, washrooms. Marilyn shuttered at the lack of privacy and suddenly felt quite thankful that Terince always spent coin on separate sleeping arrangements- save when she was sleeping in a stable.

There were no fenced in back yards in the Hearth. The grasses behind both rows of homes held an army of clotheslines and wash buckets. Today was laundry day. One could hear parents yelling at their children to go play anywhere else, as though that would work. Parents also yelled at one another for slacking off. Plenty of clothes needed to be laundered, for every one of age in the Hearth was a parent. Everyone! Marilyn had never seen anything like it!

The kids were odd as well. Not because they were backwater dwellers, but there was a crop of ten or so who were all the same age. Not only had they all known twelve winters, but they had all been born within the same two month period. The children had excitedly told her this with very little prompt, as most children did, before being scurried off by their parents with forced apologies to the huntsmen.