"Isabelle!" The Wanderer woman called to her small child, Isabelle, or Belle. The little black haired child turned angrily toward her mother and rolled her dark sparkling black pool eyes.
"What have I told you child! Stop running around like a lunatic!" Her mother yanked the child's pale arm causing Belle to fall. Tears came into the six year olds eyes. "Get up!" she said and began to walk off. Belles' brother watched as she stood up. He gave her a rude look as she stood. Belle watched as her brother began fallowing her mother off. She looked around and saw a tiny village standing there. Belle looked back to the path her family was on and ran over to the village. She saw all the beautiful colors of cloth and shoes and bags. Nothing was black!
Belle went and walked through a the curtains of cloth hanging for sell letting the colorful cotton brush over her. She smiled at the pretty colors. There was a bin next to an old wooden cart with more cloth in it. Laying on top of the bin was an old dress close to Belles size. She put her hand on it and looked around. Mamma said stealing was alright. Belle looked around to see if the shopkeeper was looking. She was buisy with a customer. Belle put the dress on quickly. It was a light purple color. She went over and looked at herself in the polished glass that hung on a post. She smiled to herself. Her black curls stood out vibrantly on the dress. Her pale cameo skin looked a little darker next to the light color.
(Rook)"Papa?" The small boy said waking up from a bad dream. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. His father was not in the stone hut. He stumbled out side too see his father no where. His eyes adjusted to the morning light . There. His father stood talking to some man he had never seen before. They both laughed at a joke his father said. The boy walked a little closer to see who the man was. He was tall, and young. Younger then his father. He had curly blonde hair and green clothes on. The man noticed him first and nodded to his direction looking at his father.
"What is it Runk?" His father asked.
The little boy stood there watching.
It was her birthday today. March twenty first. She was turning seven years old. Ettarde woke up and walked down into the grand hallway . The little princes admired all the tapestries and paintings which hung about the walls which she knew each one by name. Her bare feet padded on the stone as her night gown swept across it. She pitter-patter down the hall into her parents room.
Her father was the King of Auburon, her mother the Queen. They were not in there. Ettarde ran down the main stairs to find her mother sitting at the large table in the grand dinning area. Her mother grinned as her child ran up. Queen Elsinore lifted Ettarde into her lap giving her warm hugs and kisses. "Happy Birthday my darling!" "Where is Papa?" Ettarde asked looking around.
"He's coming love. Had some business to take care of."
"Oh." Etty said.
"Hungry Darling?" Queen Elsinor asked , Etty nodded her brown haired head and smiled, her hazel eyes alight.
Eight year old Lionel listened as his mother played her harp and sung. She sounded beautiful. He wondered why father never listened to her. Little birds gathered in the window as she sang. Lionel smiled. He looked a lot like his mother. He certainly had her height, and her hair color, but shared her love of music. His mother stopped singing and ceased her harp and looked towards her son. She stooped back down as she stood like she always did, to make herself smaller, and walked to him.
"Will you teach me one day?" Lionel asked her.
"What love?" She said .
"To play your harp?"
His mother smiled gently and hugged the child, "Of course, but we must not do it while your father is at home."
Rosemary stood looking at the apple tree. She peered up looking for the fattest, juiciest apple. Her brown eyes flashed in the direction of the cottage. Mother did not like her climbing the trees so much, afraid she would fall and get hurt. She bit her lip like she always did when she thought. She pushed her long brown hair behind her ears. Mamma said she had her fathers hair. Curling in ringlets at the ends.
Papa, Rose thought. Her mother had told her about her father after her fifth birthday. She was now seven, and he never showed up like she had expected. Rose pushed the thought out of her child mind and sought the easiest way up the tree. She grabbed a low branch and heaved her small form up. She climbed higher and found the apple. It hung out above the ground. She maneuvered over to the outstretched branch too get it.
Her foot slipped suddenly. She tried to reach out and grab a branch to stop her fall. Her hand scrapped hard against the bark. She hit the ground hard.
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