Down the Hobbit Hole

Chapter One: Ariel

Author's Note: NOT REAL BLOOD OR A REAL WOUND! I am not into self-harm, much as I love my stories. I drew a wound on my palm with washable marker, and when this picture was taken it was still wet. That said, story continue! Poof! :)
"Ow!" I cried. I held my palm where the blade had slipped, cutting deep into my skin. "I really need to sharpen that thing, ugh!" Scarlet blood flowed from the place on my left hand where I had nearly skinned myself. The wound was completely my fault. I should have sharpened the knife long ago, perhaps when I had finished the carved deer project, but no, I was much too lazy for that, so I had let it become dull. It may sound safer to have a dull knife when carving, but it's most certainly not, because a dull knife means you have to push harder to carve things, and therefore if you slip, the knife is pushed farther into your skin. I sighed, brushing wood shavings off my skirts, as I went to get a bandage and my sharpening stone from inside the house. Why do I say skirts, plural? Well, let's just say that my way of dressing is not exactly typical. I wear hoop skirts underneath large, full dresses, and if anyone reading this does not know what a hoop skirt is, I encourage them to look it up.
I had reached the medicine cabinet containing Band-Aids, and grabbed one quickly before my mom found out that I had cut myself. I knew she would take away my carving privileges for a week if she saw that I had hurt myself. She didn't want me carving in the first place, and even though my dad and I had convinced her that I should be able to carve wood if I was safe, she still tried to find any opportunity to take away my privileges. Don't get me wrong, Mom is a great person, it's just that she's very concerned about my safety, and it can be a bit much at times.
I took the sharpening stone outside and began running my knife down it rhythmically, while planning out my next cuts on my project. It was the biggest one I had attempted alone yet, and I was afraid that it may not turn out well. What I was trying to do was make a miniature replica of my horse, Braveheart. Yes, I own a horse. No, neither me or my family is fabulously rich. It took five years of lessons for my family to even consider getting me a horse, and a year after that to actually convince them to buy Braveheart. I have to work five hours a week at the stables where she is boarded in order to pay the full boarding fees. But I love and trust Braveheart more than most of my friends (sorry guys but it's true) so I gladly work the hours on weekends in order to keep her healthy and happy.
Braveheart is a brown half-Arabian horse, half-pony, and her mane always seems to hang in front of her face, as if she has bangs. She has the typical Arabian curved ears and yet not the typical Arabian temperament. Braveheart is named Braveheart because she has never allowed harm to come to a soul who has ridden her, unless of course they have seriously harmed her in the past. When all the other horses buck and bolt, she stays calm, and though she often shows attitude towards me when given a command, I know that I could rely on her in a tricky situation.
But I digress. I was attempting to make a model of Braveheart from a block of wood, and I was not finding it an easy task. I had already carved the basic shape, and most of the details, over the course of the last few months, but somehow I couldn't seem to capture Braveheart's spirit in wood. I couldn't show the gentleness in her eyes, the mischief she gets into, the special way she tosses her head when she feels like being annoying. I sighed in resignation as I finished sharpening the knife and putting away the stone. After staring at the model for a good ten more minutes, I decided to put it away for a while and do something to distract my mind from the figurine. What could I do, though? No singing. I had a cold, complete with sore throat, and though I could do many things even with a cold, singing was not one of them. Not gardening, it was the middle of January. So what to do on a boring winter Sunday? I decided that riding Braveheart might help me with the carving of her. Luckily, the place that Braveheart is boarded is straight down my family's rural street, so I can walk there whenever I want as long as I tell one of my parents first.
"Mom, I'm gonna go visit Braveheart!" I yelled at the top of my lungs.
"Okay, Ariel, go ahead!" Mom shouted back at me from the general direction of the kitchen, "just be home in time for dinner!"
"I will!" I responded as I rushed to put on my breeches, helmet, and boots. I managed to trip twice in the stiff-soled boots on my way to the stables, but luckily I didn't fall on my face either time, and I reached the gates to Braveheart's pasture without any injuries. I took her halter from the place it was hanging outside the pasture and walked up to her. Since I am short and Braveheart was feeling stubborn, it was a struggle to put the halter on while she was holding her head as high as she possibly could, but I managed and she was soon led inside the barn.