The morning broke with an eerie paleness of sunlight filtering weakly through winter clouds as best as it could. S?jira slowly woke to find the Loft in a pallid, white-wash of that light. Dark eyes closed and opened again, trying to determine how early it was, but the wintry light refused to give her hints.
Heavy layers of pelts and cloth that blanketed her in the bed were pushed aside and sat up on the side of it. The sleep had been a restful one and, for once in some time, she woke without feeling the weight of exhaustion.
With long, dark brown hair mussed from her slumbering, her hands pushed those locks back from a slightly angular face. Bleary gaze spent towards the window. Curtains she had made for it early last year hung to either side of it, not keeping the pallid light from entering the room. Material of her soft-leather gown caressed her skin as she abandoned the bed.
A gasp left her to feel the cold, wooden planks of the flooring beneath her. Gingerly, she stepped aside to the small, stony hearth and tucked her feet into her boots. She paused just long enough to drag a blanket from the back of a chair and push the iron kettle and hook that had water in it to hang it over the low fire, before she went to stand before the window.
Touch met with the winter-cold latch of the window, finding that it was still unlocked. It was a reflexive thing to do these days. She could not bring herself to lock it yet. There was reason for it that S?jira could not give up just yet.
For months, truly about a year, there had been no sign of Panther. Not a slip of paper, not a voiced message by courier of any kind. None spoken with had seen him. In those early months, there was worry. Worry had bled into pain, over time, and pain to that of a certain kind of numbness that she was becoming less and less aware of. And though she did not love him any less, she had come to the understanding that he may never return.
After the latch was checked, she gave into a turn and knelt upon the animal pelts she kept layered on the flagstones hearthside. Knees found them chilly in that first, immediate moment, then quick to warm beneath her knees and shins. The dying fire was seen to with a stirring of its embers before she reached to the stacking grate to the right and took from it a small piece of wood. There was no need for a larger one since, by midday and after her bath, she would not be within the Loft the rest of the day until late that night.
Heavy layers of pelts and cloth that blanketed her in the bed were pushed aside and sat up on the side of it. The sleep had been a restful one and, for once in some time, she woke without feeling the weight of exhaustion.
With long, dark brown hair mussed from her slumbering, her hands pushed those locks back from a slightly angular face. Bleary gaze spent towards the window. Curtains she had made for it early last year hung to either side of it, not keeping the pallid light from entering the room. Material of her soft-leather gown caressed her skin as she abandoned the bed.
A gasp left her to feel the cold, wooden planks of the flooring beneath her. Gingerly, she stepped aside to the small, stony hearth and tucked her feet into her boots. She paused just long enough to drag a blanket from the back of a chair and push the iron kettle and hook that had water in it to hang it over the low fire, before she went to stand before the window.
Touch met with the winter-cold latch of the window, finding that it was still unlocked. It was a reflexive thing to do these days. She could not bring herself to lock it yet. There was reason for it that S?jira could not give up just yet.
For months, truly about a year, there had been no sign of Panther. Not a slip of paper, not a voiced message by courier of any kind. None spoken with had seen him. In those early months, there was worry. Worry had bled into pain, over time, and pain to that of a certain kind of numbness that she was becoming less and less aware of. And though she did not love him any less, she had come to the understanding that he may never return.
After the latch was checked, she gave into a turn and knelt upon the animal pelts she kept layered on the flagstones hearthside. Knees found them chilly in that first, immediate moment, then quick to warm beneath her knees and shins. The dying fire was seen to with a stirring of its embers before she reached to the stacking grate to the right and took from it a small piece of wood. There was no need for a larger one since, by midday and after her bath, she would not be within the Loft the rest of the day until late that night.