Capricious

One: Lower World

Author's note: Hi theeeere Grid hereee. Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I pulled out all efforts needed to finish this chapter. I love writing descriptions, but I'm no genius. Please comment down below if you have any suggestions, or tips. Vote pretty please? :) I would so love to hear from you. <3 Oh, and enjoy--

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The winter morning in Borus was cold and still. White fog was thin on the atmosphere as rain drops fell tranquilly under the dark-bellied clouds. The light rain transformed the soil into a rich, soft matter where the heel of my boots sunk in an inch with every step.

Borus was a small settlement of the people from the lineage of hunters- where no other season existed besides cold. It was a village situated in the border of Alastair and Sardon- the two warring factions of Navleur- a rich nation of gold and property. My nation.

The dwellers- were named Borusts. They were a longtime resident of their land, lived like their ancestors and preferred no contact with outsiders. They grew their food in small patches of lands, fished the chilly ponds, and hunted with primitive bows and arrows. I had earned their trust during the first wave of an epidemic disease, and cured three sickly boys who had fever and frequently vomited.

Their dwellings consisted of small shacks with thatched roofs and walls built out of plain straw from the windmills. Each shed stood on its own little patch of ground, lined with several others- surrounded by tins, kettles, and broken barrels. The pathway between each dwelling was seldom cleaned and most of the time, the stench of rotting things marked those places.

I leaned my head against the frame of my door calmly- as little Borusts girls- bare-chested through the cold wind- settled pots under the eaves of their shacks to catch water, and ran back- slowly slipped and slid cheerily. They sent me grins before they disappeared to their backyards. Someone tugged my crème shabby frock that was stained by dirt on its edges from the storm. It was Fubar- a young Borust boy of six years, that stood four feet, brown-skinned and bare-chested . He had on provisional hay that hung across his waist which revealed his utterly lean structure. He was one of the boys that I initially cured from sickness back when I first arrived here. Fubar's thin dark lip was outlined with wet soil.

"My mother, she is sick" he lamented in their own dialect-Orus, then pressed the fear against his stomach. Without a blink, I grabbed my supplies, and followed him three huts away along the wet land. Slowly, I drifted the thick beaded strings that separated their door from the fog.

Fubar's mother lay limply in the corner of their square hut, covered with a long stripped sack. Their thatched roof was ruined from yesterday's storm, big holes drilled along the ragged straws that gradually permitted water to enter inside. There was no flooring- just bare wet soil, and a table raised of the ground covered in murky water.

Over the wet soil, her head was like a ball of black putty under the sack. Unhurriedly, I motioned the sack away from her face, and revealed her little eyes that were partly open, as if she peeped out of her hard shaved head in the chilly room. The forceful pulse of her breathing caused a rustling against the worn out material that covered her face. She swiveled around and faced me timidly. She opened her eyes widely in shock as I pressed my hand over her forehead. Her fingers started to reach her bareback, thighs and foot- as if she wanted to tell something. I calmed her down with hush, and then cautiously examined the soiled areas she dented.

On her dirty undressed back was a red swollen area over her flesh- that rooted to a couple more in several areas. The spots were a hollow representation of a tender spot, with balloon-like water in the middle that slowly oozed out of her brown skin. Fubar's mother was affected by the contagion.