From a child, patience was never her forte, and times passing had not improved her. The ledger before her should have been completed with the girls takings all accounted for but it remained unfilled, Distracted she thought, her cheek in her palm as she lazily slouched to look at the rain battering down against the grubby panes of glass set in the window, her other hand stabbing the nib of a quill upon the desk, splaying the tip to an unusable state, ink smearing and sinking into the oak surface. Her home was empty, no, a lie, it was sumptuous and furnished far better than she could ever have managed to accomplish alone, but it was empty in spirit, in company, save her scruffy, lanky hound Renny and even he gave little solace as he slept, sprawled out grey limbs occasionally twitching as he dreamt.
She wasn’t the brilliant child, that title was bestowed on Fengel, her brother, when he managed to swindle not one but three aging widows from their estates and all monies therein. She wasn’t the bravest child, Folwine was, who as but a young boy burnt dozens of barns and "saved" the horses, which were then sold at a good price to neighboring towns. She wasn’t the canny one, that was Goldwine, who sold lumber, stolen of course, to those who lost their barns in tragic fires. She was the resourceful one. Making every decision based on what might improve her life, though some things she had not accounted for, feelings for one.
Many days had passed since she spoke with the strange young woman in the inn, the lasses words dismissed by her company for madness, stuff and nonsense, but Sunny knew better. Coming from a family steeped in superstition, she knew there was always a grain of truth to every tale. Even grown, battle hardened men would not tread the path through the White Mountains, there are stranger things than stories, there is the truth. Nights passed and the second meeting with the woman, by the river, preyed heavily upon her. She could tell no one of what was spoken of in the darkness, the fragile, brown haired, mouse of a lass made that as clear as the water they stood by. So the words lay in her mind, grew, swirled, caused her to want to spew them forth from her mouth to those who they would have meaning, but she could not cast aside the womans grave warning.
There would be blood, of that she was certain. Blood, pain, suffering, and it was to be without question, it was a path laid out, one she was not eager to step foot on. What comfort she had was not in the form of a strong, capable man, for he had been gone tending to business concerns, preparing for the days ahead, adding to her worries. Instead it came in the form of crimson wine, each heady drop calming her a little more than the last. It also presented itself in a young lad, no more than twelve years of age, who decided she was fine company to showcase his mischief to. He amused her, he reminded her of Folwine at that age, an adorable scallywag bent on making his mark upon the land. Another day a former lover spoke with her, wishing his penance for what had occurred between them. She could not offer him comfort, only a word of forgiveness. Other matters seemed of greater importance than soothing a mans troubled heart. In hopes of distraction she tried conversing with the women folk, but they seemed as cold as the rain that was falling, though upon a mans attention would be like a nettle rash on his skin, covering him completely whether he wished the womans attention or not.
The day turned to dusk, the grey sky to black but ever more the rain drummed against the window panes. As the room became encased in nought but firelight, she lit a candle upon the desk and looked down at the ledger. Making sense of a string of numbers, she went to add a few of her own, only to be met by a broken quill.
