The 90th Trial of Zi'da in the Arc 719
It was late morning when Eliza arrived at the house on the outskirts of Scalvoris Town. She’d been there the trial before; but had remained outside the locked, wrought iron fence that kept the rest of the world at arm’s length. The structure sat on a rise, surrounded by what might have been its well kept and luxurious grounds in their heyday. It's position on top of that hill would have provided the home’s occupants with an impressive view of the landscape in every direction.
To call it simply a house, however, was to do it an injustice. A whale might well have been a minnow if that was the case. Instead, three stories high and sprawling in every direction, it might be considered to have surpassed mansion status and was halfway to palatial. But its glory trials were behind it now. From the looks of it, by a handful of decades; and it was exactly that which had caused Eliza to stop along the way to admire it.
From Eliza’s unique perspective, the home was so old that it might have been occupied by six, even seven generations over its lifetime. Be they all from one family who built it, or no. Crafted from solid, native stone with grand pillars at its entrance that had been carved, each in their entirety, from a single tree, it must have been something to see, once, when it was better cared for. Now, the naturally golden stone was stained with soot, and the paint on the pillars and window frames was chipping and curling away. If it wasn’t for the workmanship that had gone into its construction, a good stiff Cylus wind might have toppled or carried it away by now.
Gracefully, gloriously faded and nearly forgotten. The daughter of Ymiden found it to be both sad and fascinating at once. She’d taken out her sketchbook and had begun committing what she saw to paper, so that she could transfer it to canvas later, once she returned to her room at the inn. She was sure that this home had a story, and she wanted to know what it was. She’d ask around; but lacking anyone who could tell her, she’d be sure to devise one of her own. A masterful painting, after all, told as well a story as any book ever could.
She was just tucking her sketchbook into her bag and turning to leave, when the door of the home swung open abruptly and an old woman emerged. She must have once cut as graceful and dignified a figure as the home itself; and with just a glance, Eliza decided that the house must belong to this woman, and her, with the mass of gray curls twisted expertly atop her head and a long strand of pearls round her neck, to it.
She must have been eighty, maybe ninety arcs old, and was hobbling towards Eliza as quickly as gravity and the ravages of time would allow her to. With each step she took, the old woman’s cane tapped purposefully on the overgrown pavers along the way. It took her some time to reach the gate, and the artist found herself in the grips of a trill’s indecision. She’d been loitering there outside the gate after all, uninvited, and wondered if she should turn quickly and go. But the old woman had fixed an eye on her that as good as dared her to do it. And so, Eliza stayed still and waited.
To call it simply a house, however, was to do it an injustice. A whale might well have been a minnow if that was the case. Instead, three stories high and sprawling in every direction, it might be considered to have surpassed mansion status and was halfway to palatial. But its glory trials were behind it now. From the looks of it, by a handful of decades; and it was exactly that which had caused Eliza to stop along the way to admire it.
From Eliza’s unique perspective, the home was so old that it might have been occupied by six, even seven generations over its lifetime. Be they all from one family who built it, or no. Crafted from solid, native stone with grand pillars at its entrance that had been carved, each in their entirety, from a single tree, it must have been something to see, once, when it was better cared for. Now, the naturally golden stone was stained with soot, and the paint on the pillars and window frames was chipping and curling away. If it wasn’t for the workmanship that had gone into its construction, a good stiff Cylus wind might have toppled or carried it away by now.
Gracefully, gloriously faded and nearly forgotten. The daughter of Ymiden found it to be both sad and fascinating at once. She’d taken out her sketchbook and had begun committing what she saw to paper, so that she could transfer it to canvas later, once she returned to her room at the inn. She was sure that this home had a story, and she wanted to know what it was. She’d ask around; but lacking anyone who could tell her, she’d be sure to devise one of her own. A masterful painting, after all, told as well a story as any book ever could.
She was just tucking her sketchbook into her bag and turning to leave, when the door of the home swung open abruptly and an old woman emerged. She must have once cut as graceful and dignified a figure as the home itself; and with just a glance, Eliza decided that the house must belong to this woman, and her, with the mass of gray curls twisted expertly atop her head and a long strand of pearls round her neck, to it.
She must have been eighty, maybe ninety arcs old, and was hobbling towards Eliza as quickly as gravity and the ravages of time would allow her to. With each step she took, the old woman’s cane tapped purposefully on the overgrown pavers along the way. It took her some time to reach the gate, and the artist found herself in the grips of a trill’s indecision. She’d been loitering there outside the gate after all, uninvited, and wondered if she should turn quickly and go. But the old woman had fixed an eye on her that as good as dared her to do it. And so, Eliza stayed still and waited.
