Status: NaNoWriMo 2017
The Land of Infinite Whispers
NEW ARRIVAL
Cold rain pattered down on the other side of the young Lady’s window as she sat on a small stool, brushing her long brown hair while watching her reflection in the dark night of the glass. Dinner was starting soon, and she couldn’t be late like she was for breakfast.
Lightning rattled the sky outside, sending flashes of light across the land. The candles that illuminated her room danced with a draft that blew through her open bedroom door. Mirabelle stood and crossed her room to her dresser, where her trinkets and odds and ends decorated the tabletop. She set her ornate brush down and picked up the scout’s golden compass; it pointed eastward, even when she spun around in circles, the skirt of her dress whirling around her legs, it pointed east. But what did it mean?
A knock came from her doorway. In panic, she hid her arms behind her back, the compass in her hand. Arwen, Tilly’s twin sister, stood in the way. She was a larger woman, full-bodied and muscular, with her curly ginger hair tied back in a blue ribbon. “Dinner will be ready soon, my lady,” she told Mirabelle.
“Thank you,” she nodded. “I will be right down.”
The handmaid smiled and left, walking briskly down the hall. Lighting cracked the sky like a whip, followed by the knoll of a bell from outside. Mirabelle crossed the room back to her window and watched as a lone rider came from the east trail; a tall dark figure, riding a black-and-white-and-brown spotted paint horse, with saddlebags that bounced as his mount galloped down the dirt road. Pritchett stood at the stables, ringing a bell, crying, “Traveler! Traveler!”
The man came to the stables and pulled on the reins, slowing the mount to a stop in front of the old stablemaster. As he gathered his belongings, Mirabelle heard a voice from the land, seemingly spoken from the rain on her window: “No story to tell… no story to tell…”
Lightning rattled the sky outside, sending flashes of light across the land. The candles that illuminated her room danced with a draft that blew through her open bedroom door. Mirabelle stood and crossed her room to her dresser, where her trinkets and odds and ends decorated the tabletop. She set her ornate brush down and picked up the scout’s golden compass; it pointed eastward, even when she spun around in circles, the skirt of her dress whirling around her legs, it pointed east. But what did it mean?
A knock came from her doorway. In panic, she hid her arms behind her back, the compass in her hand. Arwen, Tilly’s twin sister, stood in the way. She was a larger woman, full-bodied and muscular, with her curly ginger hair tied back in a blue ribbon. “Dinner will be ready soon, my lady,” she told Mirabelle.
“Thank you,” she nodded. “I will be right down.”
The handmaid smiled and left, walking briskly down the hall. Lighting cracked the sky like a whip, followed by the knoll of a bell from outside. Mirabelle crossed the room back to her window and watched as a lone rider came from the east trail; a tall dark figure, riding a black-and-white-and-brown spotted paint horse, with saddlebags that bounced as his mount galloped down the dirt road. Pritchett stood at the stables, ringing a bell, crying, “Traveler! Traveler!”
The man came to the stables and pulled on the reins, slowing the mount to a stop in front of the old stablemaster. As he gathered his belongings, Mirabelle heard a voice from the land, seemingly spoken from the rain on her window: “No story to tell… no story to tell…”