In the Inn

The little butterfly sat on the balcony of the room she was occupying. It was a comfortable room, much more comfortable then others she'd stayed in. It was unusual for her to stay in Inns, but this one was different. She felt safe enough in this particular Inn to spend time repairing her belongings.

Bows first, of course. Not that they needed a great deal of repair. She always kept her bows in the best condition, oft times at the expense of her other belongings. After a thorough cleaning, she waxed each of them with a special mixture she made herself. Paying special attention to the bowstrings, she worked into the afternoon on her weapons. Her clothing didn't take nearly as long, especially since she was no tailor and the patching she did was questionable whether it helped or hurt her garments. The armor would have to wait until she was near a forge.

Satisfied with her efforts, she stowed all her gear. Her food stores meant more for hard traveling then leisurely feasting; she answered the call of her rumbling tummy in the Inn's kitchen. Most would call it a meager repast, but to her it was a gourmet meal. Purchasing extra of the foods that traveled well, she returned to her room and a task she had been both eager to attend and dreading.

Sitting on the floor with the inkwell at her knee, she used the bed as a desk. A frown of concentration appearing, it was surprising that someone so nimble at crafting beautiful bows had so much difficulty manipulating a quill into creating the characters she needed. But it was always that way. Writing didn't come easy for her.

(in elven, the script child-like but legible)

My Dearest Melo,
I miss you. Traveling alone is lonely. I hope your studying is done and you will join me soon. I found them, where we were told to look. Please hurry.
Forever joined,
Wil

The frown deepens as she looks at the pitiful letter. For the millionth time, she wished she were more like him, able to craft beauty with words. She had so much to tell him, about her travels, about the elves she'd met, about their town. But she had not the ability and he knew her faults as well as she. It would wait until they were together, again. Dusting then folding the letter, she sealed it before walking out on the balcony.

A soft but insistent whistle quickly brought a winged messenger. After coaxing the bird to carry her small missive, she packed away her writing paraphernalia in preparation for sleep. Spreading out her bedroll on the floor, the butterfly soon lost herself in a cocoon of memories.

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> The little butterfly sat on the balcony of the room she was occupying. It was a comfortable room, much more comfortable then others she'd stayed in. It was unusual for her to stay in Inns, but this one was different. She felt safe enough in this particular Inn to spend time repairing her belongings. > Bows first, of course. Not that they needed a great deal of repair. She always kept her bows in the best condition, oft times at the expense of her other belongings. After a thorough cleaning, she waxed each of them with a special mixture she made herself. Paying special attention to the bowstrings, she worked into the afternoon on her weapons. Her clothing didn't take nearly as long, especially since she was no tailor and the patching she did was questionable whether it helped or hurt her garments. The armor would have to wait until she was near a forge. > Satisfied with her efforts, she stowed all her gear. Her food stores meant more for hard traveling then leisurely feasting; she answered the call of her rumbling tummy in the Inn's kitchen. Most would call it a meager repast, but to her it was a gourmet meal. Purchasing extra of the foods that traveled well, she returned to her room and a task she had been both eager to attend and dreading. > Sitting on the floor with the inkwell at her knee, she used the bed as a desk. A frown of concentration appearing, it was surprising that someone so nimble at crafting beautiful bows had so much difficulty manipulating a quill into creating the characters she needed. But it was always that way. Writing didn't come easy for her. > <center>(in elven, the script child-like but legible)</center><i> > My Dearest Melo, > I miss you. Traveling alone is lonely. I hope your studying is done and you will join me soon. I found them, where we were told to look. Please hurry. > Forever joined, > Wil</i> > The frown deepens as she looks at the pitiful letter. For the millionth time, she wished she were more like him, able to craft beauty with words. She had so much to tell him, about her travels, about the elves she'd met, about their town. But she had not the ability and he knew her faults as well as she. It would wait until they were together, again. Dusting then folding the letter, she sealed it before walking out on the balcony. > A soft but insistent whistle quickly brought a winged messenger. After coaxing the bird to carry her small missive, she packed away her writing paraphernalia in preparation for sleep. Spreading out her bedroll on the floor, the butterfly soon lost herself in a cocoon of memories.
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