It was closely coming round to that time of year. The heat of the sun finally piercing the frost of the morning and encouraging flowers to blossom and leaves to grow. The home had remained almost the same, except for the traces of Drandr dotted hither and thither. He had left that morning to run a few errands, and with the thud of the door closing; the house cast within itself a shadow and a feeling of cold. Emptiness.
She had not stirred or moved from the bed as she looked out of the window, the book she had been reading now tossed aside as her thoughts drifted to lonely places and absence. The slow ease of time passing had forced her to now stand, still looking out of the same window but the sun shone high up in its peak of mid-day. She wandered toward the chest of drawers, her actions all the more strained as she searched, with little care, through folded clothes, when out of the corner of her eye a piece of attire distracted her.
It bore the hue of a rowan leaf and once removed from the drawers casing, the detail of embroidered flowers made their visible way up the bodice of the dress. Joy immediately smiled, the dress was that once owned by her mother. The last time she had seen it worn was when Ada was in good health and her hair still carried the lustre of dampened wheat ready for harvest. Joy laughed quietly to herself as she raised the dress toward her, the scent still faintly carrying that of her mother and her mind raced to times that were all the more cheerful and before illness loomed its weary head. Soon the laughter paved its gentle ways toward sobbing as she stood crooked over the drawers embracing and clutching the dress. After inspecting the state of the garment she folded it neatly.
Having stood there at length, lost and glazed; the sun had ventured lower in the sky. For fear that Drandr would soon return and find she had done nothing since he left, she hurriedly found her ragged and threadbare dress and ran a brush through her hair. She looked once again at the dress of Ada and thought of the memories it conjured and then at the state of her own frayed attire... It had been some time since she had worked the awls for anything more than mending menial repairs, she used to enjoy it.
Hurrying through to the main room of the house she began a search filled with fervour, objects and books of all manner and variety were flung across the small floor ‘til at last she found the wooden box. It was a simple, practical box, the lustre of the treated wood diminishing over time and worn down about its edges. Atop its lid was carved D.R. in unadorned text. She sat on the bench and opened the box, searching through its contents, all the leather and sewing awls, remnants of threads, strips of leather and cutting knives. In deep thought she set her gaze about the room. “I’ll need some cloth...” She took up her cloak and shawl, setting the box to one side and plucked up her pouch of coin before heading towards the door. She halted, the room behind her in a state of slight disarray as she thought of the Pony and yet another evening or so of working there. That shadow threatened to encroach again before she shrugged it off; Butterbur will have to cope without her for a few days – thankfully the place is well-staffed again, though his incessant tense tone still seems to resound. She closed the door behind her resolutely and headed for the markets of Bree...
