Tiny hands grabbed a familiar, comforting woolen skirt, latching on. The woman sat down, pulling her young son into her lap. She picked up her distaff and spindle up once more, kissing the boy's head, "Sit still and be nice, Egfor. I'll teach you a few things."
The woman glances around quickly, making sure her husband wasn't around first. The last thing she wanted to do was start an argument for teaching their son a "women's craft". She chuckled softly as her boy's hand grabbed onto her curly red hair, something he did for comfort.
She sets the staff under her arm, attaching the working end from the spindle to the working end on the staff. She stretches out the fibers from staff to spindle, rolling the spindle along her thigh as she works, starting to spin the wool into yarn.
Egfor sat in her lap, utterly entranced by the spinning thread. The woman started singing softly in her native tongue to her child, she too becoming entranced by her work, visions began to fill her mind.
A soldier garbed in leather and chain with a gleaming helm and a horse hair crest stood atop a wall. She saw through his eyes the hoards of Dunlendings and orcs below flying under one white hand banner. Her heart was filled with dread, hoping her people were wise enough to not succumb to such folly. In a moment, the warrior, her beloved son, was fighting like a ferocious wild beast cutting down man or orc, making no difference between the two. Wretched screams broke from his throat, tears and blood running freely down his face. She felt his heart shatter and grief frenzy his fighting. There was a brilliant flash and an explosion, everything and everyone went flying, the vision fading and merging into another.
There was her son once more, a proud and noble man sitting atop a massive stallion. She could see that grief and sorrow weighed heavily upon him, despite his attempts to remain looking happy and positive as usual. She witnessed herself, now a gnarled and bent old woman, her bright red hair now gray. She ran up to Egfor, reaching for the man's hands. Egfor leaned out of the saddle, reaching to take her hand, wrapping his other arm around her, kissing the top of her head, "I will miss you dearly mother." She squeezes his hand, pressing a spindle with a whorl and yarn worked on it into his hand. She murmurs, "Take this, my son. I've been working it slowly as you have grown. It is time for you to take it, spin your own thread." Egfor had a confused expression on his face. He took the spindle carefully, running his fingers over the spun wool. It seemed familiar to him. His smile softened and he carefully placed it in his jacket, close to his heart. He kisses his mother's hand, "Thank you… I will write often. Take care of yourself."
She steps back, feeling like her work was done, whatever it was, "I know you will. May your hunts always be bountiful, my beloved son."
Egfor reluctantly let go of his mother. He sat and watched the house for a moment, wondering if his father would come out to greet him. His mother notes this, hesitating before saying, "I doubt he will come out. I will pass your farewells along."
Egfor sighs, shaking his head, "Likely drinking already. Thank you mother. I love you." She smiles fondly, "I love you too, little deer. Ride safe out there." Egfor hesitates before turning to ride off, the pair would never see each other again, that vision fading.
She witnessed Egfor unhinged in a rare volatile anger, of which she had never seen her gentle son possess. He held another man she recognized as Wolf at the blade of his axe. Egfor snarled at the man, "You've treated me like how my father treated my mother. I'm ashamed I let you do so. For my sake, for her sake!" She thought Wolf was such a sweet boy when she sees the two boys play together at such a young age. Now, seeing her son react so angrily to his presence filled her with dread when she would see the child next.
She saw Egfor break down, falling into the arms of an elf. She stood and listened to her son pour out his heart to his dear friend. She marveled briefly at his ability to make friends with the elder races and such a wide variety of folks. She had seen the kindness and love in her son's eyes as he addressed his friends. Her heart filled with pride and love, knowing she did at least something right.
She followed Egfor on a hunt. The man froze and lowered his bow upon seeing a white stag, mesmerized by it. She gasped, knowing well what this meant. She wished she could tell Egfor, tell him all about her people and The Huntsman. Egfor snapped out of his trance and noticed sone mushrooms, stooping to pick them.
She was filled with mirth and delight. Her father was a Seer and she knew those mushrooms well. They induced visions. She had been silently hoping her son would follow her fathers steps despite not knowing about him or anything about their people. Her wildest dreams were coming to fruition.
She witnessed two lovers entwined on the forest floor. The air was brisk with the coming winter and the rain was pouring down on them, but the lovers did not care, hair and bodies entwined, their crying for each other heard by the trees and supported by the earth under them. Their only focus was on each other. She worried as a mother does that they would most certainly fall ill. She averted her eyes, though and smiled to herself, knowing at least, that her son finds love and shall be loved.
The last vision she got, it moved her the most. She witnessed her son clad in pelts and rough garb of a huntsman, a gleaming axe in his hand. She could feel his fear. He was filled with a paralyzing, gnawing fear of being found out as a half blood. He was also terrified of such an important task given to him. He was still fighting the feeling that he should not be here. He took a breath to calm his nerves and steady his hand. Peering out of the hood that hid his pale features at the young doe held out before him. Egfor raised the axe he held, completing the task desired of him. The moonlit shifted and she saw the faces of those who surrounded her son. It appeared to be a wedding. She wanted to scream and cry out in joy. These were HER people. They were by design, her son's people as well. Egfor's thoughts went to his mother, heart filled with grief and sadness, a few tears running down his cheeks, hidden by his hood. He mutters softly, "Thank you mother. I hope I make you proud. And our ancestors…" Egfor looked up abruptly as he was spoken to, moving forth to join some celebrations, his fears and bias easing.
She wanted to cry and hold her son. She wanted to hold him and tell him everything, to share the stories of her clan with him as her mother shared them with her. He was pursuing it on his own, though. He was unlearning all that his foul father had taught him and embracing his heritage. He was learning about and regarding his ancestors.
She broke out of her trance as she ran out of wool. She finished off her spinning, holding her beloved son tight to her chest. She wept softly into his pale golden, almost white hair. She cradled the confused and concerned toddler, whispering softly, "You'll do well my son. My little deer, my Stag. I know it. You have much to live through and for. You are a strong spirit. Your ancestors live through you." Egfor laid his head on her breast, thumb in his mouth. She kissed the top of the toddlers head fondly, her red hair falling around her precious babe as he fell asleep.
Egfor reached into his jacket pockets, quite bored and looking for something to do. His fingers brush something and grab it. He pulls a worn spindle from his pocket, suddenly flooded with memories. He slowly stood up, excusing himself and wandering to the market to find some loose wool.
He returned, sitting down and brushing off the weird looks and questions from his drinking companions. He pricks his finger and winces as he bled over the yarn and spindle for a moment. He sucks his fingers for a moment, brushing them off on his tunic. He hesitates, noting a similar but very old stain that seemed to be blood. In fact there were a few, many faded beyond recognition. He picked up the spindle, stretching the wool out and spinning the spindle against his thigh, working the wool into a fine yarn. He had never spun before but this action seemed to be in his nature. He listened to his friends converse, his hands making idle work of spinning his thread.
