When the bosk singer had suggested taking Tug on a hunt with him and his brothers, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Somethings do, at the time. After the mid-day meal, she had dressed him warmly, and waited. Maybe her first indication that this was a bad idea was when his brothers came to get the boy, and not Ba'atar. But, she estill let him go. After all, this was a warrior of the first wagons, right? Watching them ride off, was bittersweet, in many ways. Her son was no longer a baby, and she supposes it was time for him to learn the ways of men, she was just not sure she wanted him to learn them at the thigh of the singer. The man had some odd ideas.
She passed the time by getting her wagons settled. She finally found the peace to go through Lochlan's things. Some special articles of clothing were saved to be passed to their child, including his scarring tools and dyes. She would keep his scarring wagon as it was. Who knew what the future would bring. Perhaps she would have a son who would someday wish to be a scarrer like his father. She chose a wagon to use to store the things in it that she would wish their child to have. The articles of clothing, Loch's blades and dies, Lochley's drum, things like that. The rest of his clothing was sent with one of her girls to the outer wagons to be distributed among those in need.
She then walked to the wagon that she was reserving for Tug someday. In it were his fathers saddle, his tack, his leather bota that had his name tooled into it. Along the side hung his bolas, spare lances, a bow and quiver of arrows, and stored in one of the trunks were the leather vest she had saved, a set of quiva, and a small leather bag that held the lock of his hair. It was a sentimental day for her. One of visiting the past, then putting it away again. It was needed.
She could not help herself, and kept looking out to the plains, wishing for the return of the hunting party, and the later it got, the more she worried. Were there still Kassar out there? What in the name of skies had allowed her to send her son out there, into danger? From time to time Rook would tell her to calm down, everything was fine. Easy for him to say.
The hour was late when they did finally return, dirty, bloodied, full of themselves, as warriors often are. Did her precious son just call her wench? Surely not! All the child could do was babble about the hunt, the fun he had, and 'Tar said this, and 'Tar said that. It was endless, simply endless. When she discovered the wound on his arm, she did as any mother would do, she tended to it, over the protests of the bosk singer, who had this idea that dirt cured everything. Her son would have a healing salve, not dirt. She shot a look to the arrogant singer, finding murder in her heart!
Finally, she had gathered her son up and took him back to their wagons. Tug told her not to nag. Nag? She never nagged, where had he gotten such an idea? It was a battle, but she had gotten him bathed, his wound dressed, and some food into his little belly, all the time listening to more tales of the hunt. Grudgingly, she had to admit that she was proud of him. He had evidently helped to bring down a tabuk, and had made the slice that had ended its' life, and rendered it food for the tribe. Yes, she was proud.
She had sat with him until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep, playing her flute for him. His last words to her before his eyes closed were.........I'm not Tug. I am One. She would kill that bosk singer.
She came storming out of the wagon, bent upon murder, or at the very least, great bodily harm on the singer. It was Rook that grasped her arm, held her back and told her in that calm way of his that her son was growing up, and she could not stop that. She knew the truth and the value of the words, but that did not mean that she had to like them, exactly.
No, she did not storm back to the fires to lash the singer with her tongue. She thought of it. She even had visions of blood and murder, but that was not allowed either. A small smile hinted at her lips as a vision came to her.
A vision of blood, a wound. One where the singer grunted and said dirt would take care of it. Oh, she would give him dirt. In fact, she would pile the dirt on until he begged for air! She would give him dirt until his head disappeared beneath it all. There is your dirt.......bosk singer.
She passed the time by getting her wagons settled. She finally found the peace to go through Lochlan's things. Some special articles of clothing were saved to be passed to their child, including his scarring tools and dyes. She would keep his scarring wagon as it was. Who knew what the future would bring. Perhaps she would have a son who would someday wish to be a scarrer like his father. She chose a wagon to use to store the things in it that she would wish their child to have. The articles of clothing, Loch's blades and dies, Lochley's drum, things like that. The rest of his clothing was sent with one of her girls to the outer wagons to be distributed among those in need.
She then walked to the wagon that she was reserving for Tug someday. In it were his fathers saddle, his tack, his leather bota that had his name tooled into it. Along the side hung his bolas, spare lances, a bow and quiver of arrows, and stored in one of the trunks were the leather vest she had saved, a set of quiva, and a small leather bag that held the lock of his hair. It was a sentimental day for her. One of visiting the past, then putting it away again. It was needed.
She could not help herself, and kept looking out to the plains, wishing for the return of the hunting party, and the later it got, the more she worried. Were there still Kassar out there? What in the name of skies had allowed her to send her son out there, into danger? From time to time Rook would tell her to calm down, everything was fine. Easy for him to say.
The hour was late when they did finally return, dirty, bloodied, full of themselves, as warriors often are. Did her precious son just call her wench? Surely not! All the child could do was babble about the hunt, the fun he had, and 'Tar said this, and 'Tar said that. It was endless, simply endless. When she discovered the wound on his arm, she did as any mother would do, she tended to it, over the protests of the bosk singer, who had this idea that dirt cured everything. Her son would have a healing salve, not dirt. She shot a look to the arrogant singer, finding murder in her heart!
Finally, she had gathered her son up and took him back to their wagons. Tug told her not to nag. Nag? She never nagged, where had he gotten such an idea? It was a battle, but she had gotten him bathed, his wound dressed, and some food into his little belly, all the time listening to more tales of the hunt. Grudgingly, she had to admit that she was proud of him. He had evidently helped to bring down a tabuk, and had made the slice that had ended its' life, and rendered it food for the tribe. Yes, she was proud.
She had sat with him until he finally fell into an exhausted sleep, playing her flute for him. His last words to her before his eyes closed were.........I'm not Tug. I am One. She would kill that bosk singer.
She came storming out of the wagon, bent upon murder, or at the very least, great bodily harm on the singer. It was Rook that grasped her arm, held her back and told her in that calm way of his that her son was growing up, and she could not stop that. She knew the truth and the value of the words, but that did not mean that she had to like them, exactly.
No, she did not storm back to the fires to lash the singer with her tongue. She thought of it. She even had visions of blood and murder, but that was not allowed either. A small smile hinted at her lips as a vision came to her.
A vision of blood, a wound. One where the singer grunted and said dirt would take care of it. Oh, she would give him dirt. In fact, she would pile the dirt on until he begged for air! She would give him dirt until his head disappeared beneath it all. There is your dirt.......bosk singer.
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