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Description
Freedom
She had put on her best leathers for the occasion. Wrapping the cloth around her hips and securing it with the leather straps she has been saving in the basket at the base of her bed. The still smelled of pine needles and were stiff from the fire drying them, but the leather had begun to soften again when she worked the blubbery oil into it again. After a few hours it was soft and pliable hugging her body perfectly as it hung off of one hip in a loose tattered sheet.

Even her arms were decorated, apart from her work leather gauntlets that she kept secured between her fingers she had slipped on her two most ornamental bracelets. Each wide enough to wrap around the meat of her arm before they now loosely fit the meat between shoulder and elbow and required constant adjustment to keep them in place.

She had also decorated her right leg as well, bracing it with the striped leather in two tightly woven strips that hugged her leg. Though they had initially been used to set and hold the bone when she had broken her leg years before, to the outside observer they would look more ornamental than anything else.

Hours before he had given her word that her rescue was imminent. And ceased with a profound sense of glee she had busily made about her small log hovel gathering her most valuable possessions.

Rolling out a large hide over the earthen floor she and laid each item out before her with care. There were precious few items she owned, but to her each was considered invaluable, all were treated with respect.

Of her valuables she laid out her bone knife, carved and sharpened from the jaw bone of a greater honker she had slain her second year on the island. Several pouches containing herbs she had gathered and dried, a coil of twine, very threaded but measuring almost seven feet from frayed end to frayed end. She also had several pearls, ebony black that she had polished to a sheen, and, placed in the center of the hide she gingerly set a tiny silver disk, bowed outwards to give it a gentle bowl to its shape. Polished to a sheen its surface reflected back a distorted image of all that it reflected.

Slowly, she wrapped the bundle up careful to keep it tight and not disturb any of her items within. Lastly were her spears, both of them. The first was a short light thing, tipped with the ivory tip of a honker tusk, its serrated edge still sharp after all this time. Her second was longer, and, a good deal heavier too. Made of the ironwood of the island she had tipped it with a hammered out jag of stone that she had spend hours chipping away at.

Her hand moved to it now, running over the worn length of smooth wood and water stained leather. How many hours had she struggled to create such a simple weapon? Was it days? She had lost track, but she still remembered how her hands bleed when the stone cracked upon her first attempt opening her from pinky to thumb across the meat of her hand.

So much blood, tears, and sweat had poured into each of her tools, tools that had kept her alive all this time. It seemed like such a shame now that she was leaving and in her heart she could not bare to be parted with them as she slung each over her shoulder in turn before making to leave the cabin for the last time.

At the threshold she hesitated, this place had become rich with memories, and as she looked back she could see the ghost of her past self in every corner of the dilapidated hovel. There was when she had first dragged herself out of the sea and lain on the floor, to exhausted to move while the storm raged around her. There she had huddled by the damp stone fire place unable to strike a spark and had shivered herself to sleep, weeping silent tears. And there, at the door she had stood against the terrible beast that had come to her island in the dead of night. And there, and there, and there. It was as though her very essence had seeped into the wood and stone of this place, and on some level she had started calling it home.

Home.

And now she was loath to leave it.

How many nights had this wooden hovel protected her from the wrath of the storms that were swept down from the east, shielded her, and even provided her warmth when she had learned how to strike a fire. There she had curled up in her bed of pine needles, dry and soft, and there she had crafted the crude table in which she had learned to carve. Bowls only, and crude things at that, but made all the more precious when she filled them with the sweet meat, melted fat, and scallops from island.

Smiling she remembered the first time she had made Island Stew, she had eaten so much that she had gotten sick and vomited her whole portion back up. Somehow that memory made her smile now. And, it saddened her too.

It felt like she was saying goodbye to a long and trusted friend, and that when she left she knew she would never see it, the cabin, the island, its small forest and rocky coasts, all these she would pass and she would not see them again.

Her hand moved up to run the length of her reach, the callused pads of her hands gliding over the wooden timbers in an almost loving gesture.

‘Goodbye.’ She whispered before turning and walking out, her eyes moist as she made for the rocky coast.

Description
Freedom
She had put on her best leathers for the occasion. Wrapping the cloth around her hips and securing it with the leather straps she has been saving in the basket at the base of her bed. The still smelled of pine needles and were stiff from the fire drying them, but the leather had begun to soften again when she worked the blubbery oil into it again. After a few hours it was soft and pliable hugging her body perfectly as it hung off of one hip in a loose tattered sheet.

Even her arms were decorated, apart from her work leather gauntlets that she kept secured between her fingers she had slipped on her two most ornamental bracelets. Each wide enough to wrap around the meat of her arm before they now loosely fit the meat between shoulder and elbow and required constant adjustment to keep them in place.

She had also decorated her right leg as well, bracing it with the striped leather in two tightly woven strips that hugged her leg. Though they had initially been used to set and hold the bone when she had broken her leg years before, to the outside observer they would look more ornamental than anything else.

Hours before he had given her word that her rescue was imminent. And ceased with a profound sense of glee she had busily made about her small log hovel gathering her most valuable possessions.

Rolling out a large hide over the earthen floor she and laid each item out before her with care. There were precious few items she owned, but to her each was considered invaluable, all were treated with respect.

Of her valuables she laid out her bone knife, carved and sharpened from the jaw bone of a greater honker she had slain her second year on the island. Several pouches containing herbs she had gathered and dried, a coil of twine, very threaded but measuring almost seven feet from frayed end to frayed end. She also had several pearls, ebony black that she had polished to a sheen, and, placed in the center of the hide she gingerly set a tiny silver disk, bowed outwards to give it a gentle bowl to its shape. Polished to a sheen its surface reflected back a distorted image of all that it reflected.

Slowly, she wrapped the bundle up careful to keep it tight and not disturb any of her items within. Lastly were her spears, both of them. The first was a short light thing, tipped with the ivory tip of a honker tusk, its serrated edge still sharp after all this time. Her second was longer, and, a good deal heavier too. Made of the ironwood of the island she had tipped it with a hammered out jag of stone that she had spend hours chipping away at.

Her hand moved to it now, running over the worn length of smooth wood and water stained leather. How many hours had she struggled to create such a simple weapon? Was it days? She had lost track, but she still remembered how her hands bleed when the stone cracked upon her first attempt opening her from pinky to thumb across the meat of her hand.

So much blood, tears, and sweat had poured into each of her tools, tools that had kept her alive all this time. It seemed like such a shame now that she was leaving and in her heart she could not bare to be parted with them as she slung each over her shoulder in turn before making to leave the cabin for the last time.

At the threshold she hesitated, this place had become rich with memories, and as she looked back she could see the ghost of her past self in every corner of the dilapidated hovel. There was when she had first dragged herself out of the sea and lain on the floor, to exhausted to move while the storm raged around her. There she had huddled by the damp stone fire place unable to strike a spark and had shivered herself to sleep, weeping silent tears. And there, at the door she had stood against the terrible beast that had come to her island in the dead of night. And there, and there, and there. It was as though her very essence had seeped into the wood and stone of this place, and on some level she had started calling it home.

Home.

And now she was loath to leave it.

How many nights had this wooden hovel protected her from the wrath of the storms that were swept down from the east, shielded her, and even provided her warmth when she had learned how to strike a fire. There she had curled up in her bed of pine needles, dry and soft, and there she had crafted the crude table in which she had learned to carve. Bowls only, and crude things at that, but made all the more precious when she filled them with the sweet meat, melted fat, and scallops from island.

Smiling she remembered the first time she had made Island Stew, she had eaten so much that she had gotten sick and vomited her whole portion back up. Somehow that memory made her smile now. And, it saddened her too.

It felt like she was saying goodbye to a long and trusted friend, and that when she left she knew she would never see it, the cabin, the island, its small forest and rocky coasts, all these she would pass and she would not see them again.

Her hand moved up to run the length of her reach, the callused pads of her hands gliding over the wooden timbers in an almost loving gesture.

‘Goodbye.’ She whispered before turning and walking out, her eyes moist as she made for the rocky coast.