or the first night, she tossed and turned under the stars, wondering whether she had survived after all. This was pure weakness. Morgana at her strongest couldn't fear, couldn't even feel. Her strength was supposed to lie in impulse, a primal instinct of fight or flight that conquered all obstacles. Power was safety, so when would she return to it?
After a few days of wandering around in agony, of feeding off fowl and wild berries, and fighting off nausea and exhaustion, the question was answered for her when she reached a small town which announced itself, shamefacedly, as Lydil. Despite its rotten wooden signpost, she hoped for an Inn where the owner wouldn't ask too many questions, provide her with decent food, and show her the way to …show more content…
She might have laughed were her situation not dire. Once inside the box room, she collapsed onto the bed and unfurled the scroll. The list of tasks was long, written in a neat, flowing hand, but didn't contain anything unusual. Picking up corn in the market for the hens, chasing an outstanding payment from a Lord Edwin (how on earth was she going to manage that?), trimming candles... Sighing in frustration, she threw the list on the floor. Later-- she would deal with it later. Now, she simply wanted to lose herself in the warm embrace of sleep and thank the Gods for her …show more content…
“Round the back. Look at the state of you: did you crawl out of a grave?”
“Is there soap?” Morgana said, again struggling to remain polite.
“You'll find everything you need outside, round the back, although I'm not sure where you'll find a soul-- looks like you need one!”
Ignoring the maid's throaty chuckles, Morgana crept downstairs, hissing in pain as blisters on her feet popped. Sure enough, she found bucket, soap and cloth as expected, and half an hour later, she was considerably cleaner. However, this only served to highlight her many injuries, a mass of scars defacing her pale skin. Purple bruises dotted her right arm. A gash, slowly healing, curved its way under her left breast, and her lower legs were adorned in scratches, probably from when she had climbed up that slope. And despite how much soap she had used, the sickening odour of blood would not disappear.
Wrapping herself in the wash-cloth, she returned to her room. The maid was nowhere to be seen, but had left fresh clothes on the box. After getting dressed, she slumped back onto the bed again, facing the window, feeling every ache and pain as she did so.
So, was the Shadow onto her, even now? Or perhaps it had grown complacent, after leaving her for dead under a mound of
After a few days of wandering around in agony, of feeding off fowl and wild berries, and fighting off nausea and exhaustion, the question was answered for her when she reached a small town which announced itself, shamefacedly, as Lydil. Despite its rotten wooden signpost, she hoped for an Inn where the owner wouldn't ask too many questions, provide her with decent food, and show her the way to …show more content…
She might have laughed were her situation not dire. Once inside the box room, she collapsed onto the bed and unfurled the scroll. The list of tasks was long, written in a neat, flowing hand, but didn't contain anything unusual. Picking up corn in the market for the hens, chasing an outstanding payment from a Lord Edwin (how on earth was she going to manage that?), trimming candles... Sighing in frustration, she threw the list on the floor. Later-- she would deal with it later. Now, she simply wanted to lose herself in the warm embrace of sleep and thank the Gods for her …show more content…
“Round the back. Look at the state of you: did you crawl out of a grave?”
“Is there soap?” Morgana said, again struggling to remain polite.
“You'll find everything you need outside, round the back, although I'm not sure where you'll find a soul-- looks like you need one!”
Ignoring the maid's throaty chuckles, Morgana crept downstairs, hissing in pain as blisters on her feet popped. Sure enough, she found bucket, soap and cloth as expected, and half an hour later, she was considerably cleaner. However, this only served to highlight her many injuries, a mass of scars defacing her pale skin. Purple bruises dotted her right arm. A gash, slowly healing, curved its way under her left breast, and her lower legs were adorned in scratches, probably from when she had climbed up that slope. And despite how much soap she had used, the sickening odour of blood would not disappear.
Wrapping herself in the wash-cloth, she returned to her room. The maid was nowhere to be seen, but had left fresh clothes on the box. After getting dressed, she slumped back onto the bed again, facing the window, feeling every ache and pain as she did so.
So, was the Shadow onto her, even now? Or perhaps it had grown complacent, after leaving her for dead under a mound of