What is Fireside Fluff?
Fireside Fluff is a recurring segment in which your humble author presents an original work of fiction set in the Kings of War universe. Each segment contains one chapter in the ongoing story. So pull up a chair, fill your mug with some heady Dwarven ale, and settle in for a tale quite unlike any you’ve heard before…
First time readers, welcome! Please start the story at the beginning:
Rising Tide, Sinking Hope
The feast came and went in a haze. Freya’s body was present, but her mind was elsewhere. By the time the sisters had finished cleaning up, it was far past their usual curfew. They withdrew to the dormitory, bellies full, where they washed up, recited their prayers and fell fast asleep. All, that is, except Freya.
She tossed and turned in her bed, ruminating on Abbess Marion’s words. On the one hand, the possibility of developing her magical talent held an undeniable appeal. At sixteen years old, Freya had never exerted control over her life. Choices were made for her. Things happened to her. Even joining the Convent of the Word had been at her mother’s behest. But when she tapped into her magic to alter the course of the ordeal, that had been different. Freya had taken command of the situation. She had wielded power. And it felt good. On the other hand…
Freya had spent three years in the City of the Golden Horn prior to entering the Sisterhood. Three long, miserable years. The worst years of her life. Part of the difficulty had been coping with the death of her father. A kind, humble farmer from a rural community in the northern plains of Basilea, Freya’s father had been conscripted into the army during the Abyssal War. He was not cut out for the life of a soldier, but he never complained. He brushed aside the danger with a reassuring smile, taking pride in fulfilling his duty to the Hegemony and promising his wife and young daughter to return. He never did.
At the war’s end, a mighty torrent of water rushed down from the north, consuming the Abyss. It also consumed Freya’s home. A tragic, but necessary sacrifice. or so she had been told. A large swath of northern Basilea was lost, its residents evacuated, but the enemy threat was neutralized. Freya and her mother were left with little choice but to pack up and head to the City of the Golden Horn in search of a new life.
Freya and her mother were not alone. Thousands of internally displaced people converged on the capital city in the wake of the flood. The refugees were welcomed on principle, but given few resources to ease the transition. Where Freya had once filled her days helping out on the farm and taking quiet treks through the countryside, she now toiled away endless hours working alongside her mother at the cotton mill, weaving fabric in cramped conditions. Even with their meager wages combined, they were barely able to scrape by. They rented a decrepit apartment in the Drowned Quarter, an area aptly named for its submerged streets. The rising waters from the flood had rendered the first floors of all the buildings uninhabitable, and its residents had mostly relocated to other sections of the city. The water level had receded somewhat but still ranged anywhere from several inches to several feet in the worst areas. Thus, Freya, her mother, and many other refugees took up residence in this desolate rookery.
The grief from losing her father, the stress of poverty, and the onset of puberty created a toxic well of resentment in Freya that grew with each passing day. Everything in the apartment was constantly damp, making it nearly impossible to find comfort. Work was grueling, which left Freya exhausted, but took a heavier toll on her mother. The natural, radiant beauty she once possessed had been all but extinguished, replaced with worry lines, heavy bags under her eyes, and a perpetual slump in her shoulders. She tried to remain strong for Freya’s sake, but Freya was old enough now to see the pain that lay beneath her mother’s smile.
And then there was the wretched stench of the city, an odor borne from sewage, mold, smoke, and horses that somehow managed to change just enough each morning so that Freya’s senses could never adjust to it. She longed for the smell of the fresh open fields, the earthy aroma of the chicken coops, the mouth-watering scent of her mother’s cuisine. Her mother still cooked as often as her busy shifts would allow, but it wasn’t the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.
It was little wonder, then, that Freya’s mother leaped at the first opportunity to lift her daughter out of the squalor of the city. They had been walking home from work one summer evening, taking a detour through the Merchant Quarter to window shop. Window shopping had quickly become one of their favorite pastimes. Freya would meticulously examine the pastries on display at the bakery, imagining taking generous bites from each and appraising them until she found a favorite. In her mind, she was a well-respected food critic, renowned for her harsh but fair assessments. Her mother would scour the boutiques in search of the perfect wardrobe; new outfits for every occasion, replacing items as they went out of style or started to fray, unlike the handful of faded and oft-mended pieces she called her own. They could spend hours this way, comparing notes and sharing genuine laughs at the audacity of their fantasy.
On that fateful evening, the two of them were just getting started when an unfamiliar voice caught their attention. Freya and her mother had been in the City of the Golden Horn for just over three years, and the incessant bustle of activity had long since faded to background noise. Unlike the vendors hawking their wares, the horses clip-clopping down the cobblestone streets, or the clanging of bells that marked the passage of each new hour, this voice was alien. Indeed, as they turned the corner to investigate, they saw a crowd gathering around a remarkably tall, statuesque woman adorned in blue and white robes. The Sisterhood, she informed the onlookers, was in need of new recruits, and no promising candidates would be turned down. The woman did not sugar coat it. She announced plainly that life in the Sisterhood was both mentally and physically demanding, that it would require being cut off from family and friends, that young initiates were routinely sent packing when they failed to live up to the expectations, and that the threat of battle was ever present. Any interested girls should meet at the hall of worship at sunrise in two days’ time, prepared to leave with nothing but the clothes on their back.
Before her mother could open her mouth, Freya knew what she was going to say. That she would have to join. Of course, she would. There was simply no future for her in the city, no chance to break the cycle of poverty. Freya was nervous, but she tried to look on the bright side. No more ten-hour shifts in the sweltering heat of the mill. No men to assail her with lecherous stares, the way they had ever since her body began to develop, making her want to crawl out of her skin. And best of all, the opportunity to return to the countryside. Freya knew that the Sisterhood was charged with protecting Basilea’s borders, and their convents dotted the outskirts of the Hegemony.
Still, the thought of leaving her mother behind was heartbreaking. It wasn’t up for discussion, though. After a gut-wrenching farewell, Freya sloshed her way down the streets of the Drowned Quarter one final time, her ankles every bit as wet as her tear-streaked face. Once again, her life was about to change drastically, and she had no idea what to expect.
As it turned out, she took an immediate liking to life at the Convent of the Word. It couldn’t compare to the bliss of her childhood, but the serene majesty of the landscape and the simple routine of her chores provided a refreshing change of pace. The resentment that pooled in her heart slowly emptied, replaced by the ghost of happiness. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. She wasn’t ready to give it up and return to the City of the Golden Horn, even if it was to study magic. Even if it could mean seeing her mother again.
Freya sighed heavily and resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t getting any sleep this night. It had been a while since dredging up those painful memories, and she needed fresh air to clear her head. The sisters were not permitted to leave the dormitory during lights out, but at the moment Freya could care less about the rules. Her soul yearned for the woods, and she was fairly confident her absence would go unnoticed. Silently, she pulled back the sheets and padded out of bed.
