Spring Snow

The wind blew loud and cold in the night, louder and colder than Osthryn deems typical for spring. The suns' rays peek through her small bedroom window's shutters. In tandem with the sounds of a woodstove being started in the kitchen, they gently summon her from her slumber.

Osthryn smiles at the tapestry that hangs on the wall beside her bedroom door. She likes to believe that the witch, or, in the southern version, the young lady, is her. An escape through the gnolls, hills, to a safe place, with the right to rest as a righteous soul regardless of what others thought, is an ending to that story Osthryn hopes is possible for herself. The three bronze flowers, too, brings her joy as they appear one by one in the mirror as she places them in her braid. Where she dares not show her scales to anyone, and scarcely to a fellow Dragon, the shine of the bronze in her hair allows her to mark the freedom she is beginning to feel here.

Silovar may be right, perhaps she is a crow: collecting shiny things while snapping sarcastically in defence of what she hoards in her heart. The smile in the mirror falls a little. That description would fit a Dragon too. Her mind reels as she ponders further definitions, particularly that Dragons here are seen as messengers of the gods. Crows, likewise are also almost universally seen as harbingers of cosmic forces...

The thought is repelled from her mind by the scent of lovingly prepared fish head soup bubbling on the stove when she enters the kitchen.
“Good morning, Oumee," Osthryn greets Martina, who stands before the wood stove stirring the soup. Osthryn moves to her side, a slight chill draft from the bottom of the kitchen door causing her to fold her arms over her chest.

It is all Osthryn could do to politely strain up on her toes instinctively to marvel at the bubbling cauldron. Her hosts do what they can to cater to a Dragon’s tastes. While Osthryn is able to stomach common human staples like bread and pastries, meat is far better suited to her. Meat, however, is quite expensive, and fish is a relatively inexpensive substitute. Luckily for both Osthryn and her hosts, fish is a veritable treat, and fish head soup is high on the list of Osthryn’s favourite things.

"Not that I mind it in the least," Osthryn asks, "but what is the occasion for soup on a spring morning, Oumee?"

“A blessing of the gods, dear," Martina smiles over her shoulder, nodding her head to the window.

Osthryn follows her gaze, stepping closer to the misted window. If the fish head soup and the cold draft reminded her senses firmly to Bettramon, the sight through the window would entrench it further still. Like down feathers, snowflakes tumble from the sky and blanket the flower boxes and cobblestones outside. She lifts her hand against the glass. It is beautiful, but, “A blessing?"

“Oh yes," Martina beams. She ladles a hearty portion of soup into a bowl, motioning for Osthryn to take her seat as she sets down it on the table. “A reminder sent each spring that life is fickle and should be treasured, and that even unexpected cold snaps can creep up on you when all is going well." Osthryn takes her seat. This is a sentimentality that the Northern villagers would be hard-pressed to conjure for the Four Wings. Further-more, predictable seasonal events would hardly constitute a reminder of any virtues in Osthryn’s mind. Perhaps it’s just the personal ramblings of a little old lady, but the longer she ponders Martina’s words, Osthryn finds it a comforting sort of thinking despite herself.

 “Do you see the snow Oswald? Giles has blessed us!"

Martina’s bright morning greeting is met with an “Hmmph" of acknowledgement. Martina remains unfazed by this, and plants a kiss on his cheek when she places Oswald’s bowl of soup before him. Oswald’s eyebrows lift in surprise, clearly reminded that this is his “good lady wife", and his acknowledgement is shortly amended with a warm smile of thanks. Osthryn is used to Oswald being more brusque and mum than usual in the early mornings, but perhaps the unexpected cold added to that today. Osthryn turns her attention back to Martina’s statement, now attributed to a named god.

“Giles? I learned a little of Cointha yesterday. I am curious about your gods. I’m not unfamiliar with the concept, but in the North, they are a bit more absent from folklore. Our cosmology is governed by the Four Wings, which are impersonal, random, and unfeeling. The notion of a blessing to us is unintentional luck," Osthryn looks at Martina, taking a mouthful of soup. The snow and cold compliment it beautifully.

“Cointha is a goddess of Mercy. She appears to be particularly done up about the falsely accused. She is, however, ironically invoked by many that are truly accused," Marina explains, a twitch at the corner of her mouth with the last comment. “Giles, on the other hand, is a god of the land and air. The seasons are weaved between his fingers. On days like today, he determines it best that we learn that even the warmth of the greener months is not to be taken for granted or squandered."
Osthryn cocks her head. “Is it not usual for it to snow some weeks into spring each year regardless?"

“Whether by the whim of a South Wind, or of the directed blessing of Giles, the reminder holds all the same," Martina declares firmly, sitting at the table with her own bowl of soup in hand.

“I mean no offense, Oumee. I myself tend not to read too much into patterns, and in Bettramon, the Four Wings allow for very little consequential optimism."

Osthryn gratefully takes another spoonful, savouring the warmth that the soup gives on a snowy spring morning such as this. She notes the small silence at her statement.

“Perhaps, Oumee, that optimism is something I can learn from you," Osthryn corrects with an apologetic smile.

“That is no bother, my dear,” Martina smiles in return. “Now, eat up! A good soup warms the soul, and don’t forget to take a heavier coat with you on your trek to the library on this morning," Martina directs this statement mostly at Oswald. In his customary flowing linen robes, he would prove a losing contender against the sudden cold. She merely receives a less grumpy and a little more awake “hmmmff" of agreement in return. Martina turns back to Osthryn again. “You may borrow one of my coats. They hang in the study."

Osthryn bows her head in thanks and looks at the snowflakes falling outside. She is grateful. A winter coat is one of the things that did not make it into the meagre pack of possessions that she had managed to carry South with her. Osthryn resolves to purchase one for herself at the first convenient opportunity. She has a feeling that she would be staying in Mountainkeep for a good long while -- a librarian that is followed by an enthusiastic young mage is a better existence than that of a suspiciously viewed folk-witch.