part two here.
Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Jaima shifted slightly against her chair, feeling the whisper of fur across her neck. The heavy pelt she had draped over her shoulders warded off both the evening’s chill and the worst of Macabe’s melodramatic performance. Looking around, she could see that most of the people sharing her fire were considerably more entranced with the old man’s well-paced storytelling. She had to admit, he knew how to hold a captive audience; she also had to admit that she was more than a little interested, too.
part one here.
Jaima pushed the water cart from one small cluster of people to another, slowly making her way across the smooth concrete plane of the rooftop. The sun had already set, the grey stone screening the dancing shadows of the villagers amidst the orange glow of their fires. Night was coming earlier and earlier as winter approached, but the cheerful blazes pushed back the gloom of the cold season. She filled tin cups and glass bottles alike from a carafe, a peaceful smile on her face. The thankful nods of her elders warmed her heart even as the small flames they gathered around warmed their old bones. Her village was lucky; in some places, people didn’t live nearly as long as they usually did in Old Town.
The Wild Hunt
by Brett Caron
Three knocks at the door announced that the hunters had returned. Jaima’s heart began to beat faster. They had been gone too long; the sun had almost set. She had to make sure. Her back to the dingy apartment, she could hear the rest of her group in the other room. Green walls had turned a grey brown in the late afternoon light and faint moisture stains traced pathways down from the ceiling, black veins descending from dark wood. The bare hardwood floors hardly spoke under her passage as she silently padded across the room on soft soles and put her ear to the cold metal surface.