Wednesday Night Writing Exercise: The Comforts of Home

Because one day, Layana’s GM is going to need to know what this place looks like, even if the original doesn’t exist anymore.

Her safest place is built in the trees. Hers is the room at the heart of the tree—whether because her family liked light more than she did, or because their rooms could be larger, or because it gave them an extra room worth of chance to notice when she tried to slip out for her nocturnal explorations, Layana has never been sure. It may be all of the above.

It is dark, as a tree’s heart should be, set apart on three sides by trunk and on the last by a curtain of wooden beads and stillborn seeds that rattle together whenever she passes (perhaps it was in fact Option 3, she thinks, as she flinches at the noise. She had known, once, how to whisper past. Her more graceful adult self should have no trouble. The strands are not yet convinced). A basket of fire sits on a table raised from the heartwood; she has spent hours at a time finding stories in the interplay of flickering firelight and wood pattern, breathing the sharp scent of burning fruit tree and watching as the smoke is pulled up through the insect bores in the tree above her. What insects were used, how they were convinced, she has no idea.

There is little to decorate her sanctum. There is the bed, in the corner, a mass of giant soft seeds and feathers held together with woven leaves; there are the furs atop it, and the rug from somewhere down the river; there are the wooden figures scattered around the periphery.

It has not changed since Layana was a child, and thus it cannot be real. But it is safe nonetheless. So little is these days.

1 comment

  1. Michael says:

    Another piece that makes me insanely jealous of your skill with words :)

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