OOC: Comments and criticisms be welcome here. 
“Look papa! The Combe Watch! They’re doin’ training exercises!” A young girl squealed, pointing towards a throng of assembled watchers stood outside the training hall, stretching with their spears, “D’you reckon I could be one of them when I’m older?”
The brown-haired man, gaunt-faced and pale, shakily holding her hand, smiled down at her, “O’ course, honey. Don’ let your brothers or other people tell you otherwise.”
The brown-haired, mousey young girl allowed a wide smile to form on her face as the pleasant summer wind breezed about her, observing as the Watchers drew their right (and in some cases, left) arms back, each performing a swift thrusting motion with varying paces, some slow, others quick, a disarray in the otherwise orderly formation of--
“STUPID GIRL!”
The sound of pots and pans hitting the floor with a loud bang made Ray open her eyes and sit up on the bed.
“Damn ol’ codger! What’d I say about cooking alone?!” She cursed back, loudly, clambering out of the moth-eaten sheets. Mid-day was on the horizon and the woman realized, with a horrible sense of awareness, that she would be late for work. She stood up and stretched, regarding her dull, near-empty room, with scarce only a dresser and four other empty beds pushed together, disdainfully. Crossing the room, she stood in front of the chest of drawers and pulled one open, yanking out a pair of faded brown trousers and a simple white tunic that she pulled on over her head. Completing the outfit was a worn leather doublet and a belt that she slipped around her waist. She pulled on a pair of muddy, brown boots and opened the door to trudge into the main room.
She could see her father bent over the hearth in the corner of the room, miserably appearing to be – or, well, at least trying to – cook with a pot, his scraggly grey hair falling in waves down his shoulders, his old, cream-coloured tunic stained with dirt and grime. An alarming amount of bottles were stacked and scattered upon the otherwise spotless table, along with a few knocked-over tankards of what Ray hoped was at least ale. Although the room remained clean otherwise, a downtrodden atmosphere hung over the room, reminding Ray of the reasons why she loathed being stuck here.
“You reek, old man. Go an’ have a bath an’ let Helen do the cookin’ when she an’ Jamie get home.” She snapped irritably, walking to the pantry to get a loaf of bread and a sealed jug of milk. Setting the jug down, she tore a piece off the bread and bit into it hastily, leaving the rest on the table for her father.
He grunted and turned to look at her with bloodshot eyes and a pale, gaunt face that looked as if it had all the life seeped out of it, “Piss off, girl, be a darlin’ and get me another bottle o’ brandy will ya?”
“Get it yourself, y’old fart. I’ll be late fer work otherwise.” Ray retorted. She was in no mood to deal with his antics.
Her father merely grunted, picking up the pot with shaking arms and setting it back on the kitchen counter, “How d’you even make broth tha’ doesn’ taste like horse dung?”
“Don’ ask me, I don’ cook.”
“Tch. Useless woman.”
“Arse.”
Before her father could retort, the door swung open and an auburn-haired woman stepped in, followed by a lean, dark-haired man holding up a skinned chicken.
“I though’ I heard shouting in here.” The man remarked dryly. Ray could see him trying to smile as convincingly as he could, despite the tired look in his eyes. She walked up to give him a quick hug.
Helen looked at her and her father pointedly, “Always arguing, you two.” Her eyes trailed over the mass of bottles scattered on the table, and she let out a groan of frustration, “Bloody hell, Pa, wha’ is this?!”
“Bottles.” Her father grunted in deadpan. He walked over to the nearest chair and slumped against it, sighing in tiredness and wiping sweat from his brow. Vaguely, he gestured at the man with the chicken, “We’re havin’ chicken soup tonight, Jamie?”
“Aye,” Jamie replied, lifting the chicken up in indication. He put a hand on his betrothed’s shoulder to reassure her and gave Ray a look, “Shouldn’t you be at work? Cloverdale was asking for you.”
Shite. Ray had forgotten about that.
“Righ’, eh, lemme jus’…” She started shuffling in the direction of the door, pointing at it. Helen and Jamie both gave her disapproving looks.
“Y’know we’re plannin’ to move out soon, righ’?” Jamie said exasperatedly.
Ray sighed. Again with the reiteration of moving out. Again with the subtle nudge indicating that she should settle down and tie herself to someone else who was not her drunken father. She nodded hastily, irritably retorting with, “I have ears, Jamie, I’ve heard tha’ a dozen times.” and turned on her heel, walking over to the open door before she paused to take a look back.
Her father was now dozing off, head lulling from side to side, whilst Jamie, and Helen, in particular, had already begun to move to clear the empty bottles off the table. Ray sighed as she watched her father, her brother, and her future sister-in-law, three of the most significant people in her life, one of whom she despised and yet found time to love when he wasn’t in his irritable drunken mood, the other two of whom she had begun to resent for pushing the burden of her aging father onto her. She shook her head and turned back to face the fresh air, walking out into blinding midday sunlight.
