Mundane

I told myself I was going to start posting little things, such as the routine of getting up in the morning, tacking up a horse, getting dressed, etc, as practice in expressing simpler things in more detail. I've found I have a lot of trouble describing action because I cannot get away from elaborately describing every little action that goes into it. My most recent action sequence, the sword dance, proved I can do a decent job when I try. So, now I'm going to see about the most efficient way of describing the mundane, without droning on or rambling about each and every little action. From what I've read - and I've been doing a hell of a lot of reading when it comes to fantasy novels as of late - the trick is to balance the actual actions with the thoughts and insight of the character doing them. There's also the task of describing an action as one watching, as if the character was watching another do something. I think I'll take a stab at that one later. I assume the way I'm going about all of this is much the way a college course in creative writing would work, which goes to show I don't really need four years of college to get the point across, and I'm doing the lessons while at the same time getting to know my characters and the storyline that much better. What I won't have is expert insight on how to make it better... Though, I think I'm getting that by way of reading the classic fantasy novels. I'm four away from finishing up the Valdemar series by Mercedes Lackey, after which I'll be taking a long, deep look into the Dragons of Pern by Anne McCaffrey. There are a few others I have here and there, some by Marion Zimmer Bradley, which I'm looking forward to reading. These are the experts in the field I'm going in to, so I suspect they'll be a bit better teachers than some know-it-all college professor who knows stanzas and metaphors better than dragons, elves, and made-up religions. Oh, yes, I'm doing much better than I would in college.
Anyway, off to the mundane!

Rhia woke slowly the next morning. The heatherbed was comfortable and smelled much like the fields she was used to sleeping in. Sunlight streamed in through the open window, and a warm breeze lifted the amber coloured curtains up from the wall, giving Rhia's groggy mind the impression of a gypsy dancer. As she slowly climbed out of unconsciousness, her hand drifted up to rub the sleep from her eyes. They felt dry and gritty, remnants of the condition she'd been found in the night before. The aches in her muscles that seemed to go right down to her bones were a stronger reminder that she'd been in considerable trouble before she miraculously ended up here in this room. This room... She didn't remember getting here. Had she already been unconscious when that happened? In that case, was it her enemy who had brought her here? Ha! Enemy? Since when are tavern brawlers enemies? She shook the thought from her mind, which was muddled enough with her current situation to be bothered with the trivalities of the night before.
She gingerly pushed herself up into a sitting position. When her tender eyes finally adjusted to the cheery sunlight, she got a better look at the room around her. Her bed was low to the floor, which was common in the cottage-type houses in the small town she had stopped at a couple of days ago. It had been the same in the inn's nicer rooms, one of which she had managed to acquire after a long bout of strategic bargaining. She had somehow convinced the innkeeper he was getting away with a hefty deal, when Rhia knew for a fact some of the other rooms had gone for nearly twice as much as she was paying. In fact, if she remembered correctly now that she was waking up, that was precisely what had started the brawl in the first place. She sighed and resumed her critique of the room.
The room itself was a whitewashed plaster, with deep, dark brown wooden beams on the ceiling. The same wood made the door and the frame of the window. The door was to her left at the far end of the room, while the window was to her right and directly beside her. On the wall in front of her was a chest, presumably for fresh linen, made of the same wood. In fact, now that she looked around, all of the furniture was of the same, dark grain. Perhaps it was the choice lumber in the area. To the right of the chest, in the corner, was an armoire that reached the ceiling, intricately carved with bits of gold leaf inlay. It looked a great deal more expensive than what she'd seen anywhere else in the town. Very strange.
A beautiful tapestry hung on the wall between the window and the armoire, bordered with fascinating geometric designs, and embroidered in the middle with numerous pictures of a young woman and a strange horse. She supposed it might tell some sort of story, like tapestries of the nomadic tribes she used to follow far east of here. Below the window beside the bed was a small table that held a candle and a small vase of fresh lilies. The smell mixed nicely with the heather that stuffed the mattress she was laying on. She turned her head to look to her immediately left, and saw along the wall a vanity to match the armoire and chest. The mirror was tall and oval-shaped, and it's position gave off a reflection of the window. Through the reflection she could see the fields outside that she hadn't been able to see through the curtains. Looking closer, she saw that the town she was at before was actually off in the distance. Just who had collected her up after that brawl, anyway?
Again she shook the questions from her mind. There on the vanity lay a set of clothes, some of which draped over the back of the chair that sat in front of it. It was then she realized she was only dressed in skivies and a shift, the latter of which she was quite positive wasn't her own, as she normally didn't bother with the flimsy bit of cloth most girls had come to wear. Well, she might as well save herself the further embarrassment and get dressed. She pushed the quilt off of her, grimacing at the sight of the bruises all along her legs. She imagined it was much the same elsewhere on her body, though she didn't have the stomach yet to check. With great care, she got to her feet, meeting a soft, sheepskin rug instead of cold hardwood as she'd expected. She decided not to ponder over it as she had everything else and approached the vanity. Walking only increased her awareness of all the tender spots now on her body, and she did her best not to yelp at each step's jolt to her black and blue soles.
She left the shift in place, not having the strength to try to wriggle out of it, and slipped the creame coloured tunic on over top. It was very loose, and comfortable, with billowy sleeves and laces from mid-chest up to the broad neck. It sat just right so that her collarbone became a point of interest, rather than her cleavage. She liked the cut immediately. Over the tunic came a soft black leather jerkin that had a deep V down the front so that it would compliment the cut of the tunic rather than cover it up. She then pulled on a pair of tan, loose breeches that came in at the knees to fit inside boots. She smoothed out the tunic and jerkin over the breeches, then loosely tied a burgandy sash around her waist, used in these parts instead of a sword belt. A quick glance in the mirror, and she straightened the jerkin until it was just right. Her gaze then drifted to the floor as she searched for shoes or boots of some kind. She didn't have to look long; right beside the vanity was a pair of well-polished black riding boots that came up to the knee. She grimmaced at the very thought of sliding her bruised feet and calves into them, when she caught sight of a pair of slippers cleverly tucked out of the way under the vanity. She didn't even consider the absurdity of wearing slippers with a riding outfit, reaching for them with her toe and at once slipping them on. That done, and with little else keeping her in the strange room, she stepped over to the door, pulled it open, and ventured out into the house of her mysterious caretaker.