Beginning by Morn
Posted: Sat Jan 09, 2016 8:30 pm
Morn...Beginning
Morn - December 5, 2005
Morns toes were freezing. The rags shed hoarded all through the
warm summer months had almost run out, torn up on the tiny, sharp
stones that littered the internment camps courtyard. She bent her
head into the screaming wind, her pointed ears going numb with
cold. Her long black braids whipped against her back, she stares
down at her frozen feet, broken, dirty nails, wrapped in
threadbare rags, like the rest of her...barely enough to cover
her skin as the wind scourges her mercilessly.Snow swirls across
her vision. She cant see for a moment..so she closes her one good
eye...her bluesky blue eye, the right nothing left but a pool of
white...closes it tight against the snowstorms fury, loses sight
of her clap board shack, her home.
She'd not have left even that meagre shelter if it hadnt been
necessity, but the old granddame needed her. Needed her care.
Poor old Ulai. Morn tried to quicken her pace, but the faster she
went, the more the wind would rip through her flesh, down to the
marrow of her bones. But if she went slow...oh her poor feet. The
skin had turned a darker green...that cant be good she thought,
deciding shed endure the harsher pain for the shorter and she
hurried on. Thankfullly the soles of her feet were so thick with
callous and numb with cold she barely felt the sharp stones dig
into them.
Finally she reaches the broken steps that lead to her shack,
stumbles up them and wrenches open the plank door. The wind
almost decides to rip it off the leather hinges but at the last
second takes pity on the little ork girl and lets her shut it.
She leans back against it, pulling the cord latch tight as she
can, huddles down before the rusted tin can that serves as her
fire. With numb fingers she manages to liight the few scraps of
kindling shes horded away, blows on the embers until a pitiful
little fire plays sadly in the tin.
Toes, Morn thinks...and unwraps her feet, holding them close to
the fire. Slowly, painfully...needles pierce her numb feet and
she wiggles her toes with a conscious effort. Sighs. Its not
much, but what it is is a damn site better then what it was...in
that frozen Dalaran hell called winter. Morn doesnt remember much
of her childhood. Shes not much more than a child now...she cant
count past 10, so she figures shes at least 10, but the truth is
closer to 15. And it hasnt been an easy 15 years. Morn has lived
harder than most.
Born an orphan in the southern tribes, at least she was able to
survive the elements. She learned how to fish and hunt and what
she did best...steal when she could, and fight when she couldnt.
She got by. However she could. Sometimes she had to do...things.
Things to protect little Arroyo and innocent Ori. Things she
didnt want to remember now. Black things. Necessary
things...Thats all she can think of when the memories come
unbidden. Oh yes...and pain. She squeezes her legs tightly
together, grinds her teeth. She remembers...doesnt remember. Wont
remember. Dont forget the pain Morn. Never forget the pain Morn.
Her teeth still chatter, but not quite so uncontrollable as they
were a moment ago, and not entirely from the cold.
The shack has one good thing about it...its small. Little heat
warms it up. And shes taken the rags she wore on her feet and
stuffed them into the holes in the walls. On the one wall is a
few scraps of parchmennt that one of the overseers gave her. Shes
taken burnt sticks and drawn on the parchment. Hot suns. Desert.
Ocean breeze. Great, fat deer....her mouth waters. She tries not
to let it, but she cant help it...sometimes her mind seems to be
her worst enemy, and she remembers roasting fish on the warm sand
beaches with some of the other orphans. Roasted in pine
needles...a few berries for dessert. A stolen flask of ale or
uisge. Tumbling into the playful surf, wind carressing her naked
skin like Arroyos gentle hands, warm sea spray...warm as Oris
kisses. Laughing and splashing in moonlight, a million stars,
pincushion in the curtain of night. Their love cries echo off the
high cliff walls...safe and sound. Warm and clean.She wraps her
arms about herself tightly...sighs softly. Feels his hands, her
lips...the tears freeze before they hit the ground, her cheeks so
cold she doesnt even realize shes crying.
Morn - December 5, 2005
Morns toes were freezing. The rags shed hoarded all through the
warm summer months had almost run out, torn up on the tiny, sharp
stones that littered the internment camps courtyard. She bent her
head into the screaming wind, her pointed ears going numb with
cold. Her long black braids whipped against her back, she stares
down at her frozen feet, broken, dirty nails, wrapped in
threadbare rags, like the rest of her...barely enough to cover
her skin as the wind scourges her mercilessly.Snow swirls across
her vision. She cant see for a moment..so she closes her one good
eye...her bluesky blue eye, the right nothing left but a pool of
white...closes it tight against the snowstorms fury, loses sight
of her clap board shack, her home.
She'd not have left even that meagre shelter if it hadnt been
necessity, but the old granddame needed her. Needed her care.
Poor old Ulai. Morn tried to quicken her pace, but the faster she
went, the more the wind would rip through her flesh, down to the
marrow of her bones. But if she went slow...oh her poor feet. The
skin had turned a darker green...that cant be good she thought,
deciding shed endure the harsher pain for the shorter and she
hurried on. Thankfullly the soles of her feet were so thick with
callous and numb with cold she barely felt the sharp stones dig
into them.
Finally she reaches the broken steps that lead to her shack,
stumbles up them and wrenches open the plank door. The wind
almost decides to rip it off the leather hinges but at the last
second takes pity on the little ork girl and lets her shut it.
She leans back against it, pulling the cord latch tight as she
can, huddles down before the rusted tin can that serves as her
fire. With numb fingers she manages to liight the few scraps of
kindling shes horded away, blows on the embers until a pitiful
little fire plays sadly in the tin.
Toes, Morn thinks...and unwraps her feet, holding them close to
the fire. Slowly, painfully...needles pierce her numb feet and
she wiggles her toes with a conscious effort. Sighs. Its not
much, but what it is is a damn site better then what it was...in
that frozen Dalaran hell called winter. Morn doesnt remember much
of her childhood. Shes not much more than a child now...she cant
count past 10, so she figures shes at least 10, but the truth is
closer to 15. And it hasnt been an easy 15 years. Morn has lived
harder than most.
Born an orphan in the southern tribes, at least she was able to
survive the elements. She learned how to fish and hunt and what
she did best...steal when she could, and fight when she couldnt.
She got by. However she could. Sometimes she had to do...things.
Things to protect little Arroyo and innocent Ori. Things she
didnt want to remember now. Black things. Necessary
things...Thats all she can think of when the memories come
unbidden. Oh yes...and pain. She squeezes her legs tightly
together, grinds her teeth. She remembers...doesnt remember. Wont
remember. Dont forget the pain Morn. Never forget the pain Morn.
Her teeth still chatter, but not quite so uncontrollable as they
were a moment ago, and not entirely from the cold.
The shack has one good thing about it...its small. Little heat
warms it up. And shes taken the rags she wore on her feet and
stuffed them into the holes in the walls. On the one wall is a
few scraps of parchmennt that one of the overseers gave her. Shes
taken burnt sticks and drawn on the parchment. Hot suns. Desert.
Ocean breeze. Great, fat deer....her mouth waters. She tries not
to let it, but she cant help it...sometimes her mind seems to be
her worst enemy, and she remembers roasting fish on the warm sand
beaches with some of the other orphans. Roasted in pine
needles...a few berries for dessert. A stolen flask of ale or
uisge. Tumbling into the playful surf, wind carressing her naked
skin like Arroyos gentle hands, warm sea spray...warm as Oris
kisses. Laughing and splashing in moonlight, a million stars,
pincushion in the curtain of night. Their love cries echo off the
high cliff walls...safe and sound. Warm and clean.She wraps her
arms about herself tightly...sighs softly. Feels his hands, her
lips...the tears freeze before they hit the ground, her cheeks so
cold she doesnt even realize shes crying.