Today we return to: Mejaran.
Click here if you're wondering what the hell I'm talking about, or just need a refresher.
If you wrote on the prompt last time, feel free to continue on with your piece. If you're new you're welcome to go back and join us from the beginning or simply start here. You can connect your take with what's already been written or go off in a direction all your own.
The choices, they be endless.
In other news: Max turned three months old today. To celebrate, it would appear that he's getting a tooth or two in.
The cramped kitchen in a hovel on the outskirts of East Mejaran (as it was unofficially known) was further filled with the sounds of dishes being washed and a blade being sharpened, not to mention tension thick enough to feel crawling across bare skin. Yarel, not yet free of his teenage years, was responsible for the steel scraping across a whetstone. His mother, Jocelle, was stationed at the sink.
"If you're so displeased with the jobs that Ladies Helen and Margaret are doing," Yarel asked as he tested his blade against his thumb, "why don't you take one of their positions? Or better yet, both?"
"Don't be a fool, boy." Jocelle didn't bother turning to face to her son, choosing instead to continue scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on one of their three bowls. "I am not qualified for such lofty heights, nor would anyone in the village support my candidacy."
"Well you clearly have many ideas about how things ought to be run around here," her son countered, returning his weapon to its sharpening stone. "Why give up without a fight?"
"A fight?" His mother turned now, but only to spit on the dirt floor at his feet. "Who would fight with me?"
"Others who are as unhappy with our rulers as you are. I bet Orsana would stand with us."
"Child, just because that lumbering oaf gifted you that blade it doesn't mean she's your friend. Besides, what does she have to complain about? Everyone turns to her for their blacksmithing needs - she's probably the richest person in the village!"
"She is too my friend," Yarel said sullenly. "And she has plenty to complain about. I've heard her."
"That changes nothing. Do you know how many women there are around here who are better suited to be a ruling Lady than I am? A dozen, at least!"
"That's nothing," Yarel said, balancing his knife upside down on a fingertip, "a few slit throats couldn't fix."
"For you to speak of such horrors with such ease," his mother hissed, her eyes bulging dangerously, "you truly are your father's son!"
"But of course, mother." Yarel tipped his finger slightly to the left, letting the weapon fall into his waiting hand. "Who else could I possibly be?"