A young woman bounds across a field of bristling bushes and behemoth brambles, basket of berries under her arm. A scarlet scarf wraps the basket’s top, keeping its contents secure as she weaves between foliage and rocky outcrops.
She’s lithe and petite with short, sandy hair—no, shorter than you imagine, think: pixie cut with natural spikiness, like a burr that catches onto the world instead of someone’s pantaloons. That’s how she carries herself, too, bobbing through life as if pushed by the wind, grasping at anything solid, succumbing to fate, nature or what have you.
For example, the imposing fortified manor she’s running towards? Well, it’s not hers, though her manner of dress—plain, pocked and patched—would give that away to anyone.
The manor stands tall, a grand gesture of wealth, power and privilege. More of a minor palace, truth be told. And the young woman? One of many you’d call ‘the help’… yet she rushes towards it with all the enthusiasm of ‘home’.
She doesn’t only lack a deed to the place, she doesn’t even sleep inside it! She bunks in a long wooden barracks separated from the main part of the estate by an impressive (in size and scent) cabbage field.
Her lot in life is bare yet, still, her hazel eyes glimmer over a wide, toothy smile. I have no doubt that you’re regarding her expression as that of a simpleton—judgemental elitist that you are—but you’re so wrong!
It’s the sort of smile that covers pain. The outward display of a young woman who has become adept at facing away from the bad and towards the good. Beyond bravado, it’s an innate ability to magnify life’s smallest joys, giving them the best chance to eclipse the myriad miseries that haunt her.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking “oh, she’s dead inside lol,” but you’ve made that face, too—don’t even try to deny it.
Running, hopping, swaying, back-and-forth, bouncing between boulder and briar. She vaults over a thick bramble vine, thorns like dragon teeth, and, for a moment, hangs in the air, drawing a deep breath that’s returned to the world as a peel of silvery laughter. She jolts to a jovial jog as she nears the western wall.
“Lorra! Hey! Hey there!” a guard calls from above. “Open up! Lorra’s back!”
“Hi!” she shouts in return, slowing her roll to avoid any last-minute basket fails.
As the gate opens, another voice calls her name.
“Lorra! Lor-ra! Heya, Lor!” old and raspy, the manor’s steward shuffles from the shadows. “Hurry, now, Jomas has fallen ill! You’re to take his shift on the eastern wall until the fifth bell—provided you have the energy, of course.”
The steward is more wizened than wise, wrinkled as a scarecrow that’s lost its stuffing and about twice as light in appearance.
“Yes, Mister Riles,” Lorra says, all soft as to not blow him away with her breath, punctuated by a respectful curtsy. She deposits the basket of berries at his feet. “Do bring that to the cookhouse,” she adds, with a cheeky smile.
“As you wish,” Riles chuckles. “Just suit up and get your bum to the wall when the next bell rings.”
Lorra returns a mock salute and continues on, prompting Riles to bring his palm up to his face; unbeknownst to her, she gave the same salute used by the ghouls and skeletons of Entropia’s evil undead army.
***
The bunkhouse is a tall, long building. Great barn doors stay open during the day, revealing a secondary wooden façade and saloon-style swinging slats for entry.
Inside, the narrow yet vast space is bifurcated by a massive curtain—made of all types of cloth patched together. Not for privacy but for insulation during the cold months, and to direct air in the warmer ones.
It’s a sacred place of respite, providing unyielding recourse to the day’s (and/or night’s) toil. A shrine of wood, wool and burlap. As such, Lorra slinks about its brown and beige expanse with reverence.
Amber beams lend glamour to dust trapped within, and the snores of night-shifters pair well with the scent of stew, ever simmering.
Lorra undresses as she makes way to her bunk. She slips into her guard’s garb, a uniform that’s become one of her favourite outfits. It makes her feel safe, with bits of chainmail and danksteel bands in strategic points, hardened leather pauldrons and a built-in belt of useful tools: scope, whistle, flare, sewing kit and a pouch of healing herbs.
“Hey – Lorra,” a warm voice whispers.
Lorra looks up as she fastens the final latch of her uniform, replying to Ol’ Maud, the head of laundry, with a smile. Ol’ Maud raises an eyebrow and extends an arm. Lorra complies with the gesture’s demand, handing over her bundle of berry-stained clothing.
“Jomas is ill,” Lorra explains, all hushed, “I’m covering his guard shift.”
“Be safe,” Maud replies.
Lorra chokes down a giggle. “Oh, Maud, nothing ever happens around here!”
“True, true, and yet…” Maud trails off, then steps towards Lorra with a conspiratorial air about her, looking to-and-fro, “… the old wizard’s been up all night, each night, for days… he’s fussing over something, so stay alert tonight!”
“Alert? Yeah, right! I’ve been out foraging berries all day – you know how picky the chef is!”
“Only the purest indigo, larger than your thumbnail and NOT. BRUISED.” the women say in unison—both now stifling laughter.
“I’m so tired,” Lorra furthers. “But we’ll see. I’ll do my best.”
Ol’ Maud sighs and shrugs, shuffling off to continue her tasks. Lorra, now in heavy boots, tiptoes off, so as not to clomp any of her peers from slumber.
***
Running through the cabbage field is not discouraged—provided the runner in question isn’t destructive—especially to expedite the fulfillment of one’s duties. Lorra tugs up her pants to facilitate skips, hops and vaults (the uniform is a bit loose).
She clears the final row of leafy green fare, her finesse the result of repeated cabbage patch laps throughout the years.
Past the storehouse, stables and sauna barn. Beyond the boat builder’s shed and bakehouse. Yes, there it is—the estate’s humble archives.
Lorra quiets her steps, achieving dainty diligence as she crosses the threshold. A place of silent study, though it’s no library. There’s no borrowing of materials, you can be sure of that (just as the archivist is sure nothing will ever get ‘lost’).
If you’re expecting her to fill the time between shifts with deep dives or even light reading—or, to be honest, even perusing the illuminations of some holy book or another to ease her boredom—you’re going to be disappointed.
It’s not that she can’t read. More a matter of time. To be precise, the little slivers she can grasp of it for her own use. There’s a large map pinned to a wall in the back. It’s the eastern quadrant of her country’s continent. She often comes to sit and stare, even if she can’t stay long.
Lorra runs her eyes over the map, peering at the northern border. Her own hometown is a blip between the manor and the most northern of the kingdom’s outposts. Beyond that, a great wilderness sprawls upwards towards distant territories.
“Lorra,” the archivist whispers, shuffling over due to eccentricity, not age; he’s wearing slippers as always, to ‘prevent scuffs’, though most think he does it to show off.
Lorra nods and smiles in reply.
“I thought you’d like this,” he continues, hushed, producing a small, folded piece of parchment.
Lorra unfolds it with care, finding a small mirror image of a map. It’s their kingdom, in fine detail, only reversed.
“We received a number of rubbings from the royal cartographer’s newest plates,” he explains. “The ink is dried by way of sorcery – this one is a defect. Which proves they’ve relegated critical cartographical tasks to apprentices, by the way! Still… better in your hands than in the bonfire.”
Lorra grins, staring at the thing, and the archivist swishes off before she can say ‘thank you’. She folds the map and stores it in a pocket.
I’ll probably never have a greater treasure – what a gift, just for me?! I’ll need to arrange a thank-you treat with the cooks.
Lorra returns her attention to the larger map, travelling its roads, rivers and ridges with her eyes while counting upwards. When she hits three hundred, she departs.
***
The cookhouse is on the other side of the estate, closer to the main building. Lorra arrives to find her basket of berries on the sunning rack, already emptied and rinsed.
Inside, a landscape of ovens, stoves and surfaces used for preparing food are attended by the head chef’s staff. His sergeant, a rotund woman with thick gray hair pulled into a bun, beams with pride at all the hustling and bustling happening under her watch.
“Ah Lorra! Today we’re cooking a special sauce for the lord and lady’s anniversary dinner – do be careful, all of our stoves are in use!”
“It smells delicious!”
“It does, doesn’t it! Some ingredients are cooked by flame, some by magic, some between… and don’t worry, I’ll save you a taste!”
“Thank you! That’s sort of why I came today.”
“Oh? You heard about our anniversary menu? Who spilled the secret?!”
“No, no! Your secrets are safe. I’m just wondering if I can arrange for a surprise as a thank-you to the archivist, who has been so kind to me lately. A small plate of something special.”
“Ah, I see,” the portly maven says, with a satisfied sigh, “one of our arrangements, hmm?”
Lorra nods as the head cook runs a finger across the veritable landscape of her thick neck and jaw.
“If you’ll do our washing after your guard shift, I’ll make sure he gets a plate of tonight’s fare – a meal so far above his station, he’d be pressed to find word of a similar delicacies in any of his dusty old books.”
Lorra looks around, gauging the workload despite already knowing she must say ‘yes’, lest appear ungrateful to both the archivist and the head cook.
Six hours of work, I bet. Eight at most for one person. At least the cooks will get a rest? Eh… future me problem.
“Of course!”
Both women fire off one of those half-blink nods that serve as a remote handshake and Lorra departs, snatching her basket on the way to the wall.
***
“Hey, idiot! Your pauldron is missing its fringe!” an obnoxious voice calls out.
Lorra turns to see one of the stable hands staring at her with a grin so smug, you’d swear it wasn’t on a bow-legged, buck-toothed, unkempt miscreant who shovels horse manure to earn his keep.
“It got torn in training – you’d know that if you ever swung a sword!” Lorra fires back.
“Well, uh… I don’t have time to train much, too busy—”
The stable hand is cut off by the bell’s metallic song, echoing across the estate’s grounds.
“Speaking of too busy – bye!” Lorra says with a satisfied smile, sprinting off to her post.
***
The inner estate’s cozy collection of structures includes a few impressive amenities, though none as stunning as the manor itself. Yet it’s the walls that are, perhaps, its second-grandest feature. Higher than most, and staffed by guards at all times, they ensure any sort of guests (welcome or not) are noted well in advance.
The northern wall looks out over hills that roll towards the King’s winter palace, which is framed by a range of mountains capped by snow and storms.
Some have said that the height and strength of the manor’s walls are due to its proximity to this palace. A mark of grandiosity befitting of the estate closest to the monarch’s retreat. It just wouldn’t do for visiting nobles and emissaries to pass an estate without such fortifications.
It’s winter now, too. Lights from within the palace’s grand spires twinkle beside the first stars to nudge twilight away and beckon nightfall.
The lightest of flurries hangs in the air, reflecting moonlight to present its own celestial expanse in the here and now.
Nightbirds caress the wind with their gentle warble, flying overhead with grace, trying their best to shit on the northern wall’s guards.
A beautiful view indeed.
Lorra, however, is assigned to the eastern wall, which overlooks dense woodland. A vast clump of browns and greens coalescing into a unified mass of shadows as evening saunters in. Worst wall of all but—
“Great spot for a nap,” Lorra mutters to herself, hoisting up from a rickety ladder, through the floor-port’s tight passage.
She huffs in the crisp air and exhales through a wry smile. Facing east, into the thickest of thickets—of which there’s no easy ticket (of passage), all those branches and thorns and puffing poison fungi… not to mention the menagerie of menacing critters, creatures and cryptids.
Invading through that would be problematic at best. Huge nope energy.
To be fair, who could stare into that all night? Unlike some sort of philosopher’s sentiment, this abyss is staring back at you. Creepy.
And so, Lorra does what she does best—casts responsibility aside. She leans back, stretches and yawns. Berry-stained hands folded on her lap, back propped up on a rack of spears—just a few minutes of rest, promise!!!—and she slips into slumber.