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Sophia the Thunder Mistress · 06-10-2003, 06:13 PM

Khasia's eye's were narrowed as she stared at her sister and her little pawn, Nasir. What was Jasara suggesting? A split in the tribe and there would not be enough food for all, there wouldn't be enough hunters or enough people to gather the things they used to make items for trade. "We can't Jasara." she said, flatly. Khasia loved it when she was indisputably right, and Jasara seldom gave her an opportunity.

Rijal's arrival was untimely and unwelcome, however, and Khasia's self-satisfied smile faded at his news. The Painted Sand Tribe? Jasara's sudden look of glee made Khasia's stomach lurch. She looked down at her dusty toes, if more rebels could be recruited from the other clan, Khasia mused thoughtfully. Perhaps it could be done.

Leaving her sister and Nasir by the stream, Khasia walked back toward their camp. Old Jamilah and her daughters were sitting beneath the largest tree, dyeing bark to weave baskets with. Jamilah infuriated Khasia. The girl twisted her face into a sneer as she passed them by, but the woman didn't look up, her deft fingers working the strips of bark. Khasia burned with anger, she demanded to be acknowledged, at least noticed! But Jamilah was unruffled as always, her face serene.

Stomping harder than necessary in her irrtation, Khasia returned to her meager stack of belongings. She had inteded to spend the hot morning weaving her own baskets, but after such a performance, decided she'd work on mending the children's clothes instead. Shoving aside a half finished skirt she was making for herself, undyed like everything Khasia wore, she reached for the stiff bone needle and a tunic of Rijal's. That boy was always squirming into some tight corner and tearing holes in his clothing. She held up the tunic. A gaping hole in the elbow needed fixing, Rijal's whole skinny arm would fit through the hole. A few others flitted by, tossing torn garments on her pile. Khasia sighed and gritted her teeth as she pushed the needle through the thin fabric of Rijal's sleeve.

Piosenniel's post

Jamílah looked up from her weaving as Khasia passed. She watched the girl walk stiff-shouldered past her, an air of studied indifference mixed with anger trailing in her wake.

Tsk! So angry the young ones are these days! she thought as her fingers wrapped the finishing edging on the cradle she had made to bring to Briellah. She had woven in the bush lizard motif around the edges of the hood that would shade the baby’s eyes. Smiling, she laid it aside, to sort through a few other baskets and herbs that she would bring with her.

The smile left her face as the image of a coiled green mamba came to her, its unmoving cold eyes looking directly into hers. Highly aggressive, its venom deadly, it was a creature to be treated with caution and great respect.

Her eyes flicked up, drawn to the figure of the small, slender girl sitting a short distance away. Her frizzy, dark haired head was bent to one side as she held up a small shirt ragged with wear. Sitting in front of her plain-cloth tent, Khasia plied her needle, her lips moving grimly with some unheard words.

The image of the snake and the tensely coiled muscles of the angry girl slid together in her mind. And she regarded the young woman carefully.

Laying aside her sorting for now, Jamílah rose from her mat and went into her tent. Poking among her weaving supplies, she picked out a large number of newly dyed fibers, binding each color in separate small bundles. Tying the lot together with a piece of twine, she walked thoughtfully over to where Khasia sat, her bone needle flying over the pile of mending.

‘Greetings, little sister,’ she said, squatting down in front of the young woman, giving the traditional greeting from a married female to an unmarried one. ‘We have been busy dyeing strips from the tree these past few days, and have more than we will need. The tree belongs to all, and I wish to share our bounty with the tribe. Already, I have given some to Qalb, and to Na’ar, and their daughters.’ She laid the bundle down in front of Khasia, pushing it closer to her with the tips of her fingers.

‘Your baskets are so beautifully woven, Khasia. It would be an honor to have this small offering grace them . . .’

[ June 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ]

06-10-2003, 06:13 PM	#21
Sophia the Thunder Mistress Scent of Simbelmynë Join Date: Apr 2002 Location: Aboard Highwind, bound for Traverse Town Posts: 1,780	Khasia's eye's were narrowed as she stared at her sister and her little pawn, Nasir. What was Jasara suggesting? A split in the tribe and there would not be enough food for all, there wouldn't be enough hunters or enough people to gather the things they used to make items for trade. "We can't Jasara." she said, flatly. Khasia loved it when she was indisputably right, and Jasara seldom gave her an opportunity. Rijal's arrival was untimely and unwelcome, however, and Khasia's self-satisfied smile faded at his news. The Painted Sand Tribe? Jasara's sudden look of glee made Khasia's stomach lurch. She looked down at her dusty toes, if more rebels could be recruited from the other clan, Khasia mused thoughtfully. Perhaps it could be done. Leaving her sister and Nasir by the stream, Khasia walked back toward their camp. Old Jamilah and her daughters were sitting beneath the largest tree, dyeing bark to weave baskets with. Jamilah infuriated Khasia. The girl twisted her face into a sneer as she passed them by, but the woman didn't look up, her deft fingers working the strips of bark. Khasia burned with anger, she demanded to be acknowledged, at least noticed! But Jamilah was unruffled as always, her face serene. Stomping harder than necessary in her irrtation, Khasia returned to her meager stack of belongings. She had inteded to spend the hot morning weaving her own baskets, but after such a performance, decided she'd work on mending the children's clothes instead. Shoving aside a half finished skirt she was making for herself, undyed like everything Khasia wore, she reached for the stiff bone needle and a tunic of Rijal's. That boy was always squirming into some tight corner and tearing holes in his clothing. She held up the tunic. A gaping hole in the elbow needed fixing, Rijal's whole skinny arm would fit through the hole. A few others flitted by, tossing torn garments on her pile. Khasia sighed and gritted her teeth as she pushed the needle through the thin fabric of Rijal's sleeve. Piosenniel's post Jamílah looked up from her weaving as Khasia passed. She watched the girl walk stiff-shouldered past her, an air of studied indifference mixed with anger trailing in her wake. Tsk! So angry the young ones are these days! she thought as her fingers wrapped the finishing edging on the cradle she had made to bring to Briellah. She had woven in the bush lizard motif around the edges of the hood that would shade the baby’s eyes. Smiling, she laid it aside, to sort through a few other baskets and herbs that she would bring with her. The smile left her face as the image of a coiled green mamba came to her, its unmoving cold eyes looking directly into hers. Highly aggressive, its venom deadly, it was a creature to be treated with caution and great respect. Her eyes flicked up, drawn to the figure of the small, slender girl sitting a short distance away. Her frizzy, dark haired head was bent to one side as she held up a small shirt ragged with wear. Sitting in front of her plain-cloth tent, Khasia plied her needle, her lips moving grimly with some unheard words. The image of the snake and the tensely coiled muscles of the angry girl slid together in her mind. And she regarded the young woman carefully. Laying aside her sorting for now, Jamílah rose from her mat and went into her tent. Poking among her weaving supplies, she picked out a large number of newly dyed fibers, binding each color in separate small bundles. Tying the lot together with a piece of twine, she walked thoughtfully over to where Khasia sat, her bone needle flying over the pile of mending. ‘Greetings, little sister,’ she said, squatting down in front of the young woman, giving the traditional greeting from a married female to an unmarried one. ‘We have been busy dyeing strips from the tree these past few days, and have more than we will need. The tree belongs to all, and I wish to share our bounty with the tribe. Already, I have given some to Qalb, and to Na’ar, and their daughters.’ She laid the bundle down in front of Khasia, pushing it closer to her with the tips of her fingers. ‘Your baskets are so beautifully woven, Khasia. It would be an honor to have this small offering grace them . . .’ [ June 12, 2003: Message edited by: piosenniel ] __________________ The seasons fall like silver swords, the years rush ever onward; and soon I sail, to leave this world, these lands where I have wander'd. O Elbereth! O Queen who dwells beyond the Western Seas, spare me yet a little time 'ere white ships come for me!