The rode Trygg to the cemetery. January had always been the month for it, but the small one had been delayed by the winter storm.
While Panther had been busy that day, she took time from work. A dress of brown over white helped keep her as warm beneath the short cloak. Boots on her feet and reins held beneath her cloak, the small woman road the horse from the heart of RhyDin's main city, over the bridge and along the road until the entrance of the cemetery was breached.
With her, she had brought a bagful of items that she would need in her visit of the few that she knew eternally rested there. Something within the cloth slingsack she carried dully clinked as she slipped down from the back of the large, black horse.
Snow and earth crunched just a bit as she tied Trygg at the gate of the large, grande old area. Wind rushed about her, coldly but she was not there with too heavy a heart. It was a yearly visit and there were talks to be had with Master Kiroth...and Fisherwoman Thale.
Though the fisherwoman's family had claimed her body, they had left her to be buried there. And how it had surprised her when the dockman Garet told them to bury the older, sea worn woman not far at all from the man that had made the run with her from Llothgar into RhyDin.
She pulled the extra blanket from the back of Trygg and took it with her. When she stood between the two graves, she put the heavy, very large blanket on the ground.
S'jira settled down upon the front and middle of it before pulling the rest of the blanket about her sides and hips. The rest of her was still within dress and cloak while she worked the cloth slingsack about the front of where she knelt and set about lighting two candles. Several corked jars were put on the edge of blanket before her.
Tradition was here and it was something she did not think anyone had seen of her in those moments. She made certain, or thought so, that none were about in those times. Though RhyDin had its eyes and ears.
Prayers to her gods were said, fervent and quiet things that were little more than murmurings on her part. Song rose from her lips soft and heart-felt and touch took a candle, as if it were a small torch, lifting it towards the winter-bitter sky. Then drew it off towards the right towards Thale's grave. In turn, she did the same for Master Kiroth.
When the candles, both, were returned to the ground sound and stable, she moved upon her knees, without advancing or retreating, in a mournful and imploring way that would not last as such.
It was an earthy display and an appeasement to the gods of Llothgar to hear her, even in that strangest of lands: RhyDin. It was odd, perhaps, in at least her hearing, for it all lacked the reverberations of other voices of her people, the drums, and the clanking together of the hollow, metal trevao sticks, but it was the best that could be done as things were.
S'jira finished with the respectful display and song, settling back her hips to her booted feet. Then pulled the blanket up about her shoulders, sides, and hips to eat and drink graveside.
It was her way, her people's way to not always mourn the missing of some they had lost in this way.
Between bites of jerkied meat and hot, mulled wine, she sat alone there while she remembered all of the times, good and bad, with the old Fisherwoman Thale and the protective and loving Master Kiroth.
Heart was at peace to know Panther again, learning in his company again and even such a remembering of ill things of the past could not make her frown that day.
The mug of mulled wine was lifted toward each grave in turn, she took a sip and sang again.
While Panther had been busy that day, she took time from work. A dress of brown over white helped keep her as warm beneath the short cloak. Boots on her feet and reins held beneath her cloak, the small woman road the horse from the heart of RhyDin's main city, over the bridge and along the road until the entrance of the cemetery was breached.
With her, she had brought a bagful of items that she would need in her visit of the few that she knew eternally rested there. Something within the cloth slingsack she carried dully clinked as she slipped down from the back of the large, black horse.
Snow and earth crunched just a bit as she tied Trygg at the gate of the large, grande old area. Wind rushed about her, coldly but she was not there with too heavy a heart. It was a yearly visit and there were talks to be had with Master Kiroth...and Fisherwoman Thale.
Though the fisherwoman's family had claimed her body, they had left her to be buried there. And how it had surprised her when the dockman Garet told them to bury the older, sea worn woman not far at all from the man that had made the run with her from Llothgar into RhyDin.
She pulled the extra blanket from the back of Trygg and took it with her. When she stood between the two graves, she put the heavy, very large blanket on the ground.
S'jira settled down upon the front and middle of it before pulling the rest of the blanket about her sides and hips. The rest of her was still within dress and cloak while she worked the cloth slingsack about the front of where she knelt and set about lighting two candles. Several corked jars were put on the edge of blanket before her.
Tradition was here and it was something she did not think anyone had seen of her in those moments. She made certain, or thought so, that none were about in those times. Though RhyDin had its eyes and ears.
Prayers to her gods were said, fervent and quiet things that were little more than murmurings on her part. Song rose from her lips soft and heart-felt and touch took a candle, as if it were a small torch, lifting it towards the winter-bitter sky. Then drew it off towards the right towards Thale's grave. In turn, she did the same for Master Kiroth.
When the candles, both, were returned to the ground sound and stable, she moved upon her knees, without advancing or retreating, in a mournful and imploring way that would not last as such.
It was an earthy display and an appeasement to the gods of Llothgar to hear her, even in that strangest of lands: RhyDin. It was odd, perhaps, in at least her hearing, for it all lacked the reverberations of other voices of her people, the drums, and the clanking together of the hollow, metal trevao sticks, but it was the best that could be done as things were.
S'jira finished with the respectful display and song, settling back her hips to her booted feet. Then pulled the blanket up about her shoulders, sides, and hips to eat and drink graveside.
It was her way, her people's way to not always mourn the missing of some they had lost in this way.
Between bites of jerkied meat and hot, mulled wine, she sat alone there while she remembered all of the times, good and bad, with the old Fisherwoman Thale and the protective and loving Master Kiroth.
Heart was at peace to know Panther again, learning in his company again and even such a remembering of ill things of the past could not make her frown that day.
The mug of mulled wine was lifted toward each grave in turn, she took a sip and sang again.