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Polarity last won the day on October 15 2019

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  1. He swallowed hard at Ardra’s question on his prospects for marriage. He had turned seventeen at the beginning of the season, meaning he had been viewed with a begrudging respect befitting of an adult man within his tribe for about a year now. Such an occasion would have once filled him with pride, but had now been sullied by the fracturing of their household. With the loss of Calpornus, the expectation to marry and produce offspring had become a far more apparent concern for Turi. He was a socially awkward and romantically inept young man, though his outward appearance did draw occasional interest. Were one to converse with the taciturn Briton, he was more likely to gain a loud rebuke than their affection. “What need have I of a wife when you feed me so well,” he nervously laughed, rubbing his belly dramatically. “No doubt we’ll be knee deep in children by the time you start. I don’t feel a need to add to our current problems,” he grinned warmly at his own sarcastic remark. “Turning to the matter at hand,” he deflected away from providing an answer to her question. “I think Ardra has the right of it. Maybe ‘Calum’? Either way, young ‘Cal’,” he agreed, though adding a slight alteration to his youngest sister’s suggestion. “As for a girl… what about ‘Etaine’?” Turi quirked his brow and offered a half-smile towards Erea. “'Ula’ is probably better though,” he quickly resigned. Thinking on the subject more thoroughly, he allowed himself to provide one final alternative, “If she’s anything like her mother or aunt, perhaps ‘Moira’ would be appropriate. An exceptional name, for a sure-to-be exceptional little girl. In the same vein as the women before her.” Almost sickeningly flattering. He may have overdone that one. As long as it proves distracting. @Sara @Beauty
  2. Freedom is difficult. He had been born to it. It had always felt natural. It was when his family had been at its strongest and their happiest, as far as he could remember. Ambrosius wished to feel that way again and freedom seemed to be the simplest, perceivable solution. He still wondered if freedom would prove sufficient to this endeavour whilst Britannia remained under Roman occupation, but he understood the need to take one step at a time. Your relatives die. Only ever at the hands of Romans. His father in battle, his brother in cold blood. Their deaths were a decade apart, yet both as raw to his mind as though they had occurred yesterday. Roman subjugation had displayed more of an apparent threat to his family than freedom ever had. You’re in debt. When Romans manipulate the markets. Ambrosius’ family had a reliable trade until foreign commodities flooded in to Petuaria[1]. He may still be a blacksmith if the endless supply of superior wares from Roman Gaul hadn’t driven his family legacy in to the ground. Certainly not if his brother was still alive… or if he was a better craftsman. You’ve got to play these absurd political games. Roman politics. Roman games. He knew naught of either until they arrived. Had he come in to his manhood whilst still a free Briton, Ambrosius would’ve been able to choose whether to partake in inter-tribal politics. Now, he would become a man in the arena, performing these so-called ‘games’ – this blood sport – for the entertainment of Romans. Worry about food and shelter, and about money. His father owned his land by virtue of the home he had built upon it. Their community regularly farmed enough grain to sustain the village and their father traded in iron goods for other things their family may have needed. They needed not ‘worry’ about those things until the Romans began claiming the most arable land, ransacking the homes of Britons and demanding denarii to trade. Want a big house and dormice for dinner? You can’t, because you’re too fucking poor! Though the house he had been born in was modest in size, he had never been refused dormice. He needed only catch them. He thought it best not to share this revelation; one of his better ideas. You’ve got to look ahead. Shed your skin like a snake, or you can’t grow. You’ll just… stagnate. And suffocate. Clio had sounded like his brother-in-law, but whereas his eldest sister’s husband had ascribed such sentiment to defending themselves against Roman encroachment, this Bithynian slave had used it as an appeal to Roman appeasement. How many times must Ambrosius leave his past behind? Had memories no value to these people? They were all he had left. “Druids say, man is immortal. Spirit lives on… someday, joins new body. Gives hope I find them, someday,” the Briton explained of his own beliefs before she departed. “If not, I hope we see you in meadows,” he offered in a conciliatory manner. Ambrosius thought she would get along well with his eldest sister, since they had a similar tone in their reprimands. Were such a fate to mean he was reunited with his family once more, he could happily conform to such an afterlife, yet he would hope his sisters would not be forced to join him before their time. @Liv [1] Petuaria is the Latin name for modern Brough, East Yorkshire, UK.
  3. The wind. It had been many years since Manius had recalled that story. His friend and late dominus, Belanus, had hailed from Hispania originally, and had once regaled him with the local tradition regarding their origins. The first mares were said to be sired by the wind, bestowing an unmatched swiftness that their foals would inherit. Fanciful as the legend may seem, the inherent rapidity associated with the breed marked a certain precedent. The Equestrian’s own thoughts held that they must have been sired by the wind of a storm, for no fiercer temperament had he perceived in other stock. “Uenerabilis Dea Lucilla[1],” Manius recited in recognition when Claudia made mention of her mother. Though they had never been introduced, the late Augusta had been a significant benefactor of the games and many of the Etruscan’s formative career had been established at such events. It seemed to be yet another of the innumerate ways in which the hand of the Imperial family had touched his life. “She must’ve been quite a woman to have handled such creatures. I regret never having had the chance to meet her,” he offered consolingly. He had known few soldiers capable of taming such a horse as the Lusitanian, let alone civilians. She would’ve truly been remarkable in that respect, not to mention a valuable contact for a charioteer to possess. He wondered if the Hispanian folktale could prove analogous to his new acquaintance. “Wherever the best ones are. When we can find them, of course,” he replied with a grin, referring to the network of talent scouts the faction employed. This seemed to be normal practice for most chariot factions, though they all had a main source. “In the spirit of our Caesar’s namesake, we’ve taken to housing Greek horses; mostly from Macedonia. Many of them descend from the steeds of the Diadochus[2],” he proclaimed proudly, if not spuriously. “I have a personal fancy for the ‘Marino’[3] breed, though the ill-informed Roman tends to call them ‘marsh-horses’,” he shared a subtle intimation of his Etruscan lineage. Along with the Neapolitan, the Marino had served for generations as the typical mount for officers in the Roman legion, as well as for regular soldiers in the small number of native cavalry. “Was there something in particular you had in mind? Some of our individual stock comes from more remote locales,” Manius explained, hoping his answer had not put her off the idea. His profession may force others to regard him with a degree of infamy, but he doubted his honour could sustain disapproval from a woman of such status as this noble lady. @Gothic [1] Latin for "Revered Goddess Lucilla". [2] Latin for "Diadochi", the successor generals to Alexander the Great's empire. [3] Latin for "of the sea"; substituted term for an antecedent to the modern 'Maremmano' breed of horse.
  4. Clio's short description of her family brought a small smirk to Ambrosius' face. The equal ratio of brothers and sisters was a unique commonality that briefly piqued the Briton's interest. Were it not for her being the eldest, she could've been describing his own family. At least, at one point in time. When she turned to the concept of viewing this household as her new family, he could not help but display his scepticism rather plainly. It seemed an odd family, unlike any he had known. A prison within which he detected little hint of the unconditional love and care that had been present in his own home. The very idea that he would ever consider a Roman his ‘brother’ or by any other familial term was obscene, especially considering how they had slaughtered his own. “Why I fight– fought. I still fight,” Ambrosius answered uncertainly, confused by the correct syntax that would describe his situation. “Will fight,” was the Briton’s final decision on the matter. He wondered if his mother would recognise the bruised and bellicose gladiator he had become, from the quiet and soft-spoken boy she once knew. It was unlikely, he thought. “Sisters, I hope. Maybe mother. I not know,” he replied wistfully, his eyes projecting a degree of despondency. “I had brother, older. He joined father. Now, I father’s last son,” Ambrosius explained further, sharing a small weight of his perceived burden. “I half man he was… both was,” the Briton’s inflating regret prompting a shame-filled confession. “I will find them, someday. I will make right,” his tone adopted a steely resolve, yet his gloomy gaze remained. “You not want freedom? To see family again? Life better here? Roman family better?” Ambrosius probed the Bithynian further on multiple fronts, ignorant to the invasive nature of these deeply personal questions. He remained unable to comprehend the preference for the company of their captors, as he certainly had never experienced such a notion. @Liv
  5. "Mornings I feel, evenings I numb. Some months ago, only numb. Seems better,” Ambrosius responded to Clio’s own question, whilst lightly swinging his afflicted leg back-and-forth in a demonstrative and playful motion. He did seem to be pleased with the marked improvement he had undergone since receiving treatment, but he ultimately acknowledged the impediment it would inevitably bear should he overexert himself. “If,” was his selectively, laconic repetition of her final statement. If he survived, he would no doubt continue that ceaseless struggle. Perhaps it might be better were he not to survive and be saved from the perpetual uncertainty of it all, but what would his family come to know of him then? Would they ever discover his weakness and spurn him for his inability to persevere? Britons were made of sterner stuff, the men of his tribe in particular. As such, he refused to yield to such self-pitying ideas, resolving to cast them aside. Her advice to seek swift ends to future contests seemed sound, until Ambrosius considered his paramount desire – to seek his freedom. Whilst his chances of survival would be likely to vastly improve using such tactics, any chance of gaining the wealth and prestige required to obtain such sought after rewards would not. Should he ever wish to accomplish his goals, he would need to win the adoration of the crowds. He would not do the kindly slave a disservice of arguing with what she believed would be valuable advice, yet only for a gladiator with less grandiose ambitions. “Thank you. I will think,” he replied curtly, but not lacking in courtesy. Noticing the sombre not their conversation had taken upon his tactless broaching of the subject of war, he attempted to change tack. “You have family?” Ambrosius addressed another interrogative query towards Clio, with perhaps not the subtlest of approaches. The question itself laid bare where the Briton’s thoughts lay, but as he noted the slight age difference between the two of them, he realised she was likely of a similar age to his eldest sister, who herself had been expecting a newborn child. @Liv
  6. Ambrosius had heard mention of this so-called ‘evil eye’ before, yet never had it been firmly explained. He found the elaborate Roman rituals with regards to curses and wards peculiar. The Brittonic measures were remarkably simple by comparison and often verbally administered. Even still, he could not deny that the bold lines were arresting, as the turn of the conversation would attest, nor could he dismiss their reputed aesthetic appeal. The exotic and unfamiliar had a way of revealing that inclination within people, even in the conservative Briton. The increasing markets for foreign wares in Britannia had proved that fact time and again When Clio turned to the matter of ‘gladiatrices’, as he had just been informed, he bit the inside of his lip at her confirmation of the existence of the female fighters. He could only hope his family had found roles for which they were better suited. He’d always had a penchant for foolish endeavours and risking his life, so perhaps this was where he could feel most at home. For the time being, at least. “Battle at Eburakon[1],” he halted his speech, forgetting himself for a moment as he floundered in memories of his homeland, causing a slip from Latin in to his Brittonic tongue. “Eboracum,” he quickly corrected. “Roman javelin strike true. Think legionaries like seeing… suffer. Punishment for dead ones,” Ambrosius briefly outlined the circumstances surrounding the infliction of his injury, exhibiting a degree of nonchalance in his candour. Had the roles been reversed, the Briton believed an equal or even harsher penalty would’ve befallen any surviving soldiers of the Romans. Woe to the vanquished, indeed. “Fever come, wound black. Medicus help… after time. Get better. Muscle weak. Feel numb, sometime… ache. Training help,” he elaborated further on the residual effects of the physical trauma. The cause of his limp stemmed from the growth and subsequent removal of an abscess, developing from an infection of his wound. The weeks he spent in immobile captivity whilst still held on his native soil had also begun their slow decay on his inactive muscles. Despite the setback, he had been steadily showing signs of regaining his former vigour and agility. Those were the very remarks his instructor was likely to have made to the Imperial client earlier that day, as well as the reason he was going to see his first contest relatively soon. “You think it be problem? Not train long time. First games soon,” he requested her thoughts on the prospect of his fighting, attempting to gauge her reaction to his chances. He presumed she may have insight due to her presence during drilling sessions. @Liv [1] 'Eburakon' is the Brittonic name for the Latin 'Eboracum', located in the modern-day city of York, North Yorkshire, UK.
  7. Erea’s affirmation of Turi’s decision to seek out alternative avenues of gaining wages gave him a hesitant sense of pride at her approval, greatly diminishing his growing disillusionment at the harsh reality of business. “Thank you-” he began to reply, but was cut off. Though he had expected Immin to provide resistance, the abruptness of the outburst had caught Turi off guard, causing him to choke slightly on his mouthful of mead. When his brother-in-law suggested that his efforts would be put to slaughtering their own people, the younger male Briton had the imprudent inclination to point out that auxiliary troops rarely served in the lands of their origins; an impulse he ultimately restrained. Ardra’s remarks derived dry amusement from Turi, causing a brief upturn of his lips, but his overall expression remained a mix of confused and concerned. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I didn’t mean to spoil the evening. I should’ve talked to him first. Perhaps… I’m not ready to do this alone,” his fleeting pride giving way to his former regret, as he returned to doubting his actions. “Perhaps I should…” he let the sentence hang in the air, unsure of what he should do. Apologise? Explain? Be quiet? The latter held its appeal, but neither seemed to be ideal and he doubted whether either deed would suffice in bringing this conflict to a speedy resolution. He cast his eyes questioningly towards his eldest sister, hoping she could supply some direction. @Sara @Beauty
  8. “Eyes... from homeland, Biff-in-aye?” His own eyes winced as he referred to the black lines painted upon her lids, whilst attempting to repeat the name of her country of birth with difficulty; a product of the northern drawl to his Brittonic accent. Ambrosius would become immediately aware of the error in his recital, but was hesitant to redress it, lest he further her impression of him as a buffoon in the effort. In truth, his personal knowledge on such matters didn’t extend beyond the tribes of his Gallic kinsmen across the Oceanus Britannicus[1]. The Bithynian slave’s brief, yet definitive analysis of her treatment at the hands of her Roman masters led the Briton to question his own condition. Had he been treated well? Well enough, he supposed. He was still alive, which had to count for something. He had also been made deftly aware of the fact that his life could be good here, should he so choose and possess the abilities necessary to survive. The potential of freedom, fame and wealth drew even free born Romans in to the arena, some were attending the very same Ludus. Yet, only the first of those possible rewards held foremost appeal in Ambrosius’ mind. Any chance, no matter how slim, that he may one day find his family and return to their homeland, was worth the trial by fire that the games were presumed to be. Suspiciously, he wondered if this was the reason they dangled these prizes before these gladiators: to keep them complacent – almost acquiescent – in death. Clio’s following exposition on the intricacies of the servile hierarchy within Roman society would prove enlightening to the ignorant Ambrosius. Her amusing illustration and accommodating analogy, using the gladiatorial classes he had recently become most accustomed to, would serve to address a number of questions he had formed in his time within the city. He would silently note that the differences, or rather, advantages between the subsets of gladiator seemed more subjective than the objective distinctions between the status of slaves within a household. They would have to be, lest the outcome of the games were never in question and only one class of gladiator were preferred, if undoubtedly regarded as superior to the rest. Nevertheless, the Briton was grateful for the insight. “You not fight? I not see any women, uh– gladiators?” He queried of his new acquaintance, deflecting from the awkwardness of his prior embarrassment by displaying a discernment of the syntactic difference between ‘no’ and ‘not’ through their discourse. The only women he’d seen since his arrival at the Ludus, barring Annia Comna and Clio, had been within the bounds of the domus. He pondered whether the females were trained in separate areas, perhaps different schools, or if even the Romans had some moral sensibilities they dare not shed, though he highly doubted the latter theory. He still believed he had two surviving sisters – somewhere – and the idea that they may have been forced in to a similar, brutal situation was a sombre thought to bear. @Liv [1] Latin name for the 'English Channel'; literally "British Ocean" or "Ocean of the Britons".
  9. It seemed, despite his injury, the reason he had been chosen was because he was the ‘best of the bunch’. Ambrosius assumed that there must be a particularly bad market for slaves in city of Rome to warrant such an explanation. He could barely walk when he arrived, yet he was expected to triumph over the battle-hardened veterans of the arena. The Briton could only hope that he possessed as much faith in his prospective training facility as he did this deity of which he professed. The metaphorical dagger, formerly concealed, came unsheathed and the Praetor had evidently grown weary at the baiting of the junior Briton. Ambrosius quickly understood that it was no longer wise – had it ever been – to continue toeing this line, but his response would contain a certain edge to its tone. “When I see Britannia’s shores again… hold my sisters in my arms, then you may call me by my name, should you so please. Until that day, I’ll play your game and ‘Ambrosius’ will earn their favour and their fear,” he replied menacingly, yet tinged with hope as he expressed the underlying belief that what remained of his family still lived, wherever they may be. He wanted to curse, but couldn’t fault the Roman for reminding him of his reason to survive. Using the bed as a counterweight, he rose on to his legs to ascertain the extent of his lingering injury. The sharp pain that shot like lightning through his leg earlier in the day, was now replaced with a dull ache and a sense of numbness stemming from his thigh. He mentally queried whether this was a product of the medicine or the new norm. He was unlikely to be certain until tomorrow. “When would you have me begin?” He questioned of the Praetor and displayed a foolhardy readiness in the process, as a symptom of his youthful inexperience. Even a fool would realise more time was needed to heal and would unlikely see the gladiatorial school for another month as he recovered, should he manage to retain the hospitality of his new dominus. @The Young Pope
  10. He slowly nodded his head as his eyes danced from the gestures that the female slave’s hands displayed to the shapes her lips made, doing his best to distinguish and interpret any unfamiliar Latin terms from her physical guidance. When she halted her exposition to confirm his understanding he bobbed his crown more confidently, earnestly assisted by her patience. “No, no,” Ambrosius echoed her earlier sentiment in an effort to be understood. Relaxing his demeanour and drawing on his few lessons with a Latin tutor of his master’s employ, he proceeded to explain further in deliberate and calculated terms. “I return to room. I… stop. I lose time. I sorry… Clio. I return now,” he attempted to clarify, hoping she would accept his short, yet honest explanation in lieu of a more thorough elucidation that would likely be expected of someone with better grasp of the language. A curious thought popped in to his head at the end of his statement and he interjected with a query before his new acquaintance had formulated her own response. “You say you slave, no Roman? You well… look well. You pretty dress. Roman pretty dress. I no pretty dress,” the Briton framed his question almost comically, inadvertent as it was. The rust-coloured tunic that Clio was attired in at that very moment may not have been the best example of her finer station, but to further his point, he gestured towards the subligaculum[1] he had been assigned since his arrival at the ludus, which covered naught but his nether regions. “Romans like you? Treat you well?” Ambrosius followed his immediate question with two more, in quick succession. He possessed an innately curious mind, but a distinct unawareness when his curiosity became intrusive and overbearing. One could only hope that this interaction would not prove to be such a case. He had made far too few friends since his arrival in Rome, thanks in part to his own reserved mentality, but largely due to his inability to communicate with his multi-ethnic colleagues and the exasperation of others to maintain stilted conversation of someone with a juvenile comprehension of the Latin language. This woman's careful corrections exhibited a degree of humanity that he had only encountered once before, since his arrival in the city. He did not wish to let the opportunity pass of knowing another sympathetic individual. @Liv [1] A type of Roman loincloth worn by gladiators.
  11. “I’ve been discussing an opportunity with some men from the Ecen[1] for the last few days. I think we’re to be a family of farriers for the time being. Not as lucrative, but it should be steady work,” he answered hopefully, yet carrying a sense of weariness. His mastery of the hearth had never been of equal to his brother, with the family’s necessity for Turi to continue that legacy wracking him with equal parts shame and regret, due to his inability to provide in similar style. This recent proposal would have him care for the hooves and shoes of the horses in the charge of warriors from a closely neighbouring tribe, largely under the sway of southern Roman dominance, who provided supporting troops to the Roman legions; a position that would likely put him at odds with his own ideals. The annual influx of Roman colonists to the northern outposts, particularly aristocrats and the wealthy middle class, had gouged the local economy. Roman traders had been able to undercut local artisans with an endless stream of supplies from the continent and detract from the appeal of the Briton’s ancestral crafts through the import of exotic, luxurious and technically superior wares from abroad. The Romans had intended to conquer Britannia, not only by the sword, but by the manipulation of market forces. It had become rare for him to see his kinsmen attired in traditional Brittonic designs and cherished the idea that his youngest sister still held true to their cultural fashions. The thought of either of his sisters dressed in gaudy, Roman garments was a sour one. “I, um- I could probably use Immin’s help in negotiating the, uh… finer details of the contract,” he posited hesitantly towards Erea, nervously rubbing the nape of his neck with his left hand. With the cup in the right, he took a protracted swig of the mead that had been poured and neglected to mention the condescending regard in which the Iceni had held him, lest she thought less of him and his capabilities. The men in question likely wished to take advantage of the youth and inexperience of their new business partner in such matters. @Sara @Beauty Reader Advisory: [1]‘Ecen’ is the Brittonic name for the tribe of ‘Iceni’.
  12. OCTOBER, 74 CE Pausing in the arcade of the Ludus’ domus, reserved for the household of Titus Justinius Canicus Phiscerus, Ambrosius surveyed the scene of the surrounding courtyard. The leaves upon the trees that littered the gardens had begun to exhibit tinges of saffron and brown, indicating the passing of summer and the onset of autumn. Being unaware of the exact day of his birth, his family equated the beginning of the season with such a time. It would mark his eighteenth year, but he held no doubts that he would spend this anniversary in the absence of his family, for the first time in his life. Previously, he had often shared this occasion with his youngest sister, who had been born during the same season. The Briton had been returning to his quarters from a discussion with the ludus’ manager, where he had been briefed on the possibility that he would shortly undergo his first gladiatorial contest. Despite only having a few short months to prepare, his instructor had informed the Imperial client of Ambrosius’ perceived suitability for the tournament – though he was hardly the only one. It seemed as though they were scraping the bottom of the barrel to provide a respectable levy of gladiators for the event and hedging their bets in the process, hoping to achieve a grand victory. Some might consider it ‘desperate measures’. Resolving to cast such thought aside and return to his room, he turned on his heels and strode towards the central hallway that divided the wings of the structure in to east and west, whilst providing him with a route from the south towards the gladiator’s quarters at the northern end of the premises. He travelled in that direction for roughly fifty meters before coming to a halt as a familiar figure exited from an adjoining room. Catching their gaze, he would recognise the individual as a woman that often accompanied Titus’ wife during periods of training, watching from afar. Her frequent presence gave the Briton youth a curious pause for thought, realising he knew nothing of the woman, despite her frequent presence becoming second nature. “Me, uh- I sorry... mea domina[1],” Ambrosius quickly apologised in broken Latin, despite being uncertain of any wrongdoing. His very existence had been considered an offence at various times during his captivity. Neglecting her darker complexion in ignorance of geography, he presumed her to be of Roman birth and somehow of relation to the master of the house, thus the term of respect. @Liv Reader Advisory: [1] Latin phrase meaning "my lady".
  13. Ambrosius has a family history of capable women and could probably endure a degree of emasculation in the eyes of the other gladiators. I've made him slightly prone to foolishly antagonising his superiors, which could give context to that situation. It could be an idea for a later thread though. I'll start working on an OP using the third idea for now. I'll send you a PM when I've finished the draft to make sure the introduction is good with you.
  14. Hey @Liv, thanks for the interest. I'd certainly be interested in a thread between Ambrosius and Clio. We slaves need all the friends we can get. My ideas for their initial encounter are: A back-in-time thread around July (shortly after he arrives at the Ludus), perhaps having gotten lost on the grounds of the ludus and needs some simple directional assistance, giving a brief window to become acquainted. Either a back-in-time or IC thread where Clio might witness a conflict or scuffle between Ambrosius and some of the more senior gladiators, during a break in training (and an absent instructor) that she might be able to intervene in (being a more favoured slave). Finally, it could an IC thread where Ambrosius might be returning to the gladiator's quarters, from the villa, after having met with Titus. Being some time after his arrival, he might be considered less of a flight risk at this point and allowed to take this route alone, giving them a rare opportunity to speak (perhaps having noticed one another several times before, during training). Those are my first thoughts, but I'll consider some other possibilities. Let me know if any of those ideas appeal and I'll start working on a draft OP.
  15. Turi gave his eldest sister a sombre and sideways glance before turning his gaze upon the youngest, Ardra, at her beckoning to confirm her assertion and adopting a reluctantly, mirthful expression. If truth be told, it had been many years since he’d felt any semblance of control. They had long been at the ‘mercy’ of Romans – fabled though it was – and the events of seven months prior had only reaffirmed this belief in his increasingly, volatile mind. Nevertheless, it was not her burden to bear and he would seek to spare her of the same brooding temperament such thoughts would entail. He found her naiveté with regards to the Roman threat more endearing than wearisome, as it provided a temporary escape from such weighty concerns. “Of course. Ardra has been an adequate substitute since you and Immin moved in next door,” he replied teasingly to his little sister’s question. Their brother-in-law had finished thatching the roof of he and Erea’s matrimonial home several weeks ago, with the duo moving out of the familial hovel in bated arrival of an expectant newborn. Though Turi had helped where he could, the loss of Calpornus and Letinie had brought earlier construction efforts to a grinding halt. Further delays had been required as their now absent, eldest brother’s assistance in such matters was sorely missed and the family coffers dwindled. Today was the first time since their departure that all four of the remaining family members had gathered together in such a way, though the couple were never far away should a need arise. “I hope Immin has no complaints,” Turi turned his gentle taunts towards Erea. Familial banter that was once commonplace had grown sparse amongst their retinue, with the once close bond that the two middle siblings shared having become somewhat fractured. It was a situation that neither party had seemed to strive towards nor enjoyed, but had been born of circumstance and their differing views. @Sara @Beauty
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