Been working on a little something and have decided that I do need to outline in brief. Started to create a scene list and work on my story arc. Really enjoying myself.
The gypsy takes the stick and pokes at the embers of the fire with renewed vigour, the caravan horseshoe safe, whilst travelling players sing melodies only half remembered. Two small children, brother and sister, sit road weary on the cracked bark, hands out catching warmth. Rough spun, one of their few remaining possessions, the blanket carpets them in mothers-love, whilst she tends a cooking fire off to the side, humming softly as the rabbit promised for the safety of the group, softens and tenderises.
The campfire visitors are fearful, their father off to the east, a farmer turned unexpected warrior. Mother hasn’t told them where they are going only that they must leave. Their warmest memories smoke and ash. Burned, as they hid in mouldy cider barrels; their mother in the barn. They had obeyed orders – staying out of sight, crying out as the first torch had hit the thatch roof, dry from the drought, the sound hidden by the whoosh of flames. As the men ride away, laughter ringing out, their mother returned to fetch them. Jemina, the oldest, can’t help but notice as arms wrap her in tenderness the bruising on the wrists and red dark tears in the summer farm dress.
Gadrial, glances at the woman tending the stew, he pulls at his ear, one of the many tells that a story is about to start. Melodious, like a lullaby, he starts a story of love and return, knowing all the while these young minds are unlikely to make it to winter. Their father now a heap of white and grey in some distant spot, an unsuccessful test of fruitful scythe to steel-edged sword.