Thread: To Snare a Hawk

The steady clanging of Mastersmith Brahm??s hammer striking to anvil permeated the yard, resounded loudly from the forge room and clear beyond the back yard, where his second daughter was drawing up water from their limestone well. It provided an unconsciously-perceived beat for her actions as she passed each hand before the other, drawing up the slick linked chain. Never could understand why chickens need so much bloody water, she seethed though she kept the words to herself. The feather-brained birds ever seemed to be knocking their pails over or strewing them with grain and straw, or else defecating in them. Infuriating tufts of still-clucking lard rolled in feathers. And with spearheads in the place of mouths. Clearly some sort of divine joke, reflected the young woman. She plunked the bucket upon the packed earth beside the well, resting her well-toned arms some as she swept a few loosened jet locks away from her grey eyes. Let herself rest more to avoid the petty birds a few moments more than to leaven the strain upon her muscles, for she was far from fragile. Had she not forged half of the links of the well??s chain herself? Forged. Something at the forge felt odd??the hammer had stilled, and silence rang out. And then?? Kathlirra??s breath caught in her throat as she heard that voice, that soulful laugh. For all that she had not heard it nigh on a year, though she had often conjured its warm tones, though calling out softer, verily murmuring into the velvety contours of her creamy ears. She could conjure the honeyed eyes set into the handsome face, framed by short locks of burnished gold hair, like ripened, waving wheat in the sunlight. He was here. He was here and she smelled like chicken shit. Abandoning her bucket entirely, and grinning ear to ear like a madwoman, she hastened to the cottage half of the forge, to freshen her mussed hair, and swap her apron. Pinch her cheeks a brighter red, though there was nothing to be done for her silver-gray eyes, for they already glittered and danced like stars. ??Now, lemme se ??as I ken do,? she could hear the old swordsmith saying, thorough the mortared wall. Could practically picture him, humming and guffawing, grizzled hair fanning madly about his shoulders though one could not tell if it were black streaked with silver or silver streaked upon black. ????T looks as if you??ve been oiling ??er up but good. Keepin?? er sheathed. But whose skull??ve ye been bashing with ??er, Hawk?? He tched, a soft sound barely permeating through the wall. The race then, for Kathlirra, had commenced. She unbound her locks from their little-girl??s braid, raked her comb through the thick but subtle waves, from the ends upwards. Splashed water from the jug over her face, to clear away smudges of dirt, peering at her reflection in the little circle of water. Bertrand, no doubt, was collecting up the other arms??and the telltale clanking told her it was so, garnering a smirk. She had a bare few moments yet, then . . . Her apron she tossed on top of her quilt and dug out another, this one embroidered with painstaking flowers at the pockets, and barely tied it on before she flew out of the front door. Snatching up a basket of course, for some kind of excuse. Her stroll was far more sedate as she wended her way to arrive at the forge entrance, however, just as she calculated Hawk and his entourage would be stepping out, leaving her father to his work. And as he worked, Hawk would be trapped in their little town all day . . . and perhaps for all of the next, as well. And what better time was there to snare a Hawk? For she had made herself just such a promise, a year ago. And Kathlirra would do all that she could to untz it along, starting with this instant, as she 'accidentally' blundered, pressing her full bust into him, but righting herself well before she tumbled to the ground. She would not wish to muss her dress, after all. ??Oof! Ah, Hawk, why I . . . why what a surprise!? she stammered adorably, irresistibly even, fluttering eyelashes about her dewy gray eyes. ??Has it been a year yet? You have not changed a wit.? Though perhaps he would see that she had. Surely he could not overlook her now, nor resist her entreaties of entertainment for the day, for all that his two tag-a-long accomplices would damper events some.