Often, the small one was there in the early morning hours.
She had been a fixture there since soon after coming to the lands of RhyDin and the city itself. It was along the docks that she had met Fisherwoman Thale — as coarse a person as any sailor or dockhand born at the waters' edge that was ever met or heard of.
Though the old fisherwoman had died a couple of years ago, 'jira was seen at the docks just as often as before — if not more often. The work was always there to be done and not enough were there on any given day to help with it.
Not always did she help the men and women with hauling the fishes from their boats to the docks, but sometimes she aided with the selling of them.
That morning, she was doing neither but instead was sitting upon a large crate that had a padding of rough potato sacks to cushion the hours she would be there. Another empty sack was over her lap to use as a type of blanket while the old, large cloak of Panther's was about the rest of her.
Except for the arm from her biceps down to her hands. That much was revealed while she was working on the net. It was damaged and she was pulling the net closer to better eye the tears in the mesh. Picks and rocks had done the damage with the latest haul of fish and had left that net in particular in a terrible mess.
While thoughts were of many things, distracted to the listening of the rough natured din of the docks, she took on the pain-staking task of mending that part of the net. Captains, fishermen and fisherwomen hurried by without decorum or manners in their thick wool, sweaters, and boots with their peacoats or cloaks fighting against the cold morning and salty sea air spray.
She had been a fixture there since soon after coming to the lands of RhyDin and the city itself. It was along the docks that she had met Fisherwoman Thale — as coarse a person as any sailor or dockhand born at the waters' edge that was ever met or heard of.
Though the old fisherwoman had died a couple of years ago, 'jira was seen at the docks just as often as before — if not more often. The work was always there to be done and not enough were there on any given day to help with it.
Not always did she help the men and women with hauling the fishes from their boats to the docks, but sometimes she aided with the selling of them.
That morning, she was doing neither but instead was sitting upon a large crate that had a padding of rough potato sacks to cushion the hours she would be there. Another empty sack was over her lap to use as a type of blanket while the old, large cloak of Panther's was about the rest of her.
Except for the arm from her biceps down to her hands. That much was revealed while she was working on the net. It was damaged and she was pulling the net closer to better eye the tears in the mesh. Picks and rocks had done the damage with the latest haul of fish and had left that net in particular in a terrible mess.
While thoughts were of many things, distracted to the listening of the rough natured din of the docks, she took on the pain-staking task of mending that part of the net. Captains, fishermen and fisherwomen hurried by without decorum or manners in their thick wool, sweaters, and boots with their peacoats or cloaks fighting against the cold morning and salty sea air spray.