Soulweaver by Joyce Liao

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SUMMARY: Just a beginning to a story/chapter, may be slightly rough. Comments and R&R will be greatly appreciated. This is just a rough sketch of the beginning a hopefully, promising short story.

Note/summary: Have you ever wondered if talent exists in the talentless? Is it only a society-bound concept? If so, can a society be proven wrong?

Bright, morning sunlight filtered through the windows of my bedroom, piercing my eyes with its sheer intensity. Shading my face with one hand while rubbing the dust off the glass with the other, I peered through the rectangular orifice in anticipation of my uncle's arrival. My stomach fluttered with excitement. Pressing my forehead against the cold panel, I squinted through the glaring light for the specter of a black carriage traveling down the distance of the paved roads of my family's estate. My breath caught in my throat. Not at the sight of my uncle, still unquestionably late, but at the wild, mysterious expanse of Solum. I was intoxicated, drinking in the land's beauty. In the way a man admires a woman, my eyes lingered on every curve, color, and shape of the tantalizing scene.

Stretching 300 leagues to the east, the dawn sun reflected off the opulent mountains, the multi-faceted rocks sparkled an unimaginable depth of colors. Here, snow drifted lightly, speckling the dark brown ground of the property with its white paint. To the north, stood a sea of emerald-green trees that composed the ancient Gabii forest, each adorned with a cap of snow. Last but not least, to the west, the land crumbled away slightly to reveal the rest of the village, marble buildings and towers highlighted by the eye-searing white of the sun and decorated by the shadows of the birds soaring high above it. I have always lived in Lar a' Bhaile and yet, the surrounding spectacle provided an irresistible solitude rare in life.

After a few moments, my attention naturally returned to the road. Somewhere within the mansion, a scuffle had burst out, the brash sounds of a couple of pots and pans resonating in my ears. Still no sign of my uncle. Sighing, I flopped back onto the hard surface of the wooden bed, softened by light layers of crude sheepskin. The fragrant smells of fried sinciput and baked seed bread wafted teasingly around the small room, setting my stomach on fire. The household was just beginning to stir, the sounds of hammer upon metal echoed through the hallways. Those of my family who have just finished breakfast were already in their workshops, refining their creations. Others, newly awakened from the comfort of their plush beds, will soon be making their way down to the dining hall for the succulent gourmet that awaited them. Lucky bastards. My stomach grumbled, my back ached, and my right arm was beginning to cramp under the pressure of my prone body. In desperation, I shifted myself out of the bed and towards the door. No luck. The maid last night had not forgotten to set the locking wards that kept me imprisoned here in this hellhole. I had stifled a cry when the doorknob ignited hand and arm with electric shocks of pain from touch alone. Frustrated and cradling my sore arm, I walked over to the rusty wash basin perched next to the bed.

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