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I had been wearing my older sister's best hand-me-down white dress for what felt like months. Swaddled as I was in it, it was the only decent dress we owned at all, and in town I wanted to be a lady. Counting the days was like counting the clods of dirt on my boots--pointless. So, I settled in to the drudgery of a routine that had started as an amazing adventure.

Never ones to travel far afield, we had lived quietly and without incident moving from farm to farm picking whatever crops were in season, logging the oak and willows whenever wood was fetching a fair price in whatever town we were closest to. I'd never say that we were the saddest, happiest, poorest, greatest, or least family in the world. We were making our way. We lived together, my sisters, their husbands and children, our parents and grama, and me. Four generations of us worked the lumberjack's trade. There was enough gold to keep us in gloves and boots and enough food to keep our strength up, but I wanted something more.

There's fairy tales around about how some gallant knight comes in and rescues the fair maiden from the clutches of drudgery or dragons. There's stories about brave wizards wrestling with daemonic forces bending them to serve the greater good. Nonsense. Dragons always survive somehow. Daemons come back again and again. Rely on someone else to save you, and the drudgery always wins.

So, I left. I just up and took off on my own. An old skirt and shirt sticking to me like a second pale pink skin, I headed for the great town of Britain.

What did I find when I got there? I found the great adventure I was looking for. There were folks all over town trading their labor for gold in small gray sacks, filling the treasure chests of the architect with booty looted from monsters slain in deep and terrifying dungeons. And there were more stories. Only this time, I was writing them.

There were stories of helping hands opening up their treasure troves and begging me to dive right in. I delivered packages for vendors in town and dove right in. There were expeditions into creepy forests and legendary dungeons. I delivered packages for vendors in town and delved. There were vendors in need of a delivery service. I delivered packages for vendors in town and I delivered packages for vendors in town and I delivered packages for vendors...

They call me commendable for my speedy service, and I deliver more packages for vendors in town. The dragons are waiting for me in their lairs, and I deliver even more packages for vendors in town. The history of the world is being written my families like the Ateis and the Ranars, and I deliver still more packages for vendors in town. And the drudgery wins after all.

Drudgery is a necessary discipline at first, it seems. Even adventuring in the wild and slaying fell beasts can become drudgery when one has done it innumerable times. What slays the drudgery is meeting new people and making new friends, or helping out a down on the luck adventurer. I thought I was going to die from the boredom of my delivery job until I met a winsome Wynne in Jhelom one day. From then on I kept an eye out for you.

-Wyspr

Unbeknownst (or maybe a little beknownst) to him, she's been keeping an eye out for Wyspyr too.

I hope this story isn't too much of a downer. It was meant to be a modern tragedy ala Arthur Miller--the commmon woman, a flawed heroine, fighting against the constant pressure to conform, the drudgery of work and the fatalism that threatens to stop her dead in her tracks. It's inspired by his plays like Death of a Salesman and A View from the Bridge. It does reflect something of her character though--the fatalism part. Something's bound to show us the light at the end of the tunnel one of these days.

Not a downer at all, I sighed when I read it, thinking of the requisite -routine- that had to be followed in order to be more than I was. Everything has a purpose and drudgery is just a means to an end. I guess I am saying that "I can relate".

Wynne wrote:Unbeknownst (or maybe a little beknownst) to him, she's been keeping an eye out for Wyspyr too.

I hope this story isn't too much of a downer. It was meant to be a modern tragedy ala Arthur Miller--the commmon woman, a flawed heroine, fighting against the constant pressure to conform, the drudgery of work and the fatalism that threatens to stop her dead in her tracks. It's inspired by his plays like Death of a Salesman and A View from the Bridge. It does reflect something of her character though--the fatalism part. Something's bound to show us the light at the end of the tunnel one of these days.

Bayn wrote: I guess I am saying that "I can relate".

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