Finally

Trying to imagine what a slave wagon would be, was not something I had ever done. I had - during my life - wondered about the lives of the women that resided near the bunkhouses, but I had been clearly warned to stay away from them. Curiosity had nipped at me more than once, but Fate had intervened at every turn, always directing my path elsewhere. When I entered this time, without restriction, I had many expectations, and just as many uncertainties.

The wagon was large and roomy, sparsely furnished, much like the Brave Warrior's wagon. The necessities existed, furs and pelts and blankets, a small cooking brazier for when the larger fire outside was not practical or wanted, a few crates and many baskets of every shape and color. Filing the baskets were beads, strips of leather, ribbons and small bones, even a comb with a few teeth missing. Chains and their ending manacles were scattered throughout the space and I counted, but stopped after six, recalling Nya's proclamation that they would most likely be filled in the near future. Even if this wasn't just a wagon just for me, I found Warrior Fonce to be very generous in providing such nice accommodations. I had even discovered the most exquisite decoration, carved with rich detail on honey colored wood. After many turnings and tippings, the testing of my fingertips over the indentations and ridges, and the sniffing of openings, I realized it was a lamp - but how to fill or light it completely escaped me. It sang a lullaby of home to me, complete with the promise of bogeyman chasing warm light and the simple characteristic of giving the space a feeling of being lived in. All the wagon truly needed now were a few pictures matching those I had tacked up within the Warrior's wagon.

I wished I had more artistic flair. I sat outside, soaking up the light of Lar' Torvis and smudging more of my spice paint over two more pages of my journal. The sunsets and sunrises were easy enough to accomplish, blending the colors available to mimic the broad strokes of the sky that I had witnessed in my time. The smaller details were not so accomplished, tending to be doodles much like I did on the margins of my writing pages. Swirls and curlicues, hearts and many petalled flowers, winged creatures with long delicate antennae and dark eyes on fringed, striped wings. Around me, both on the wagons I called home and the ones that peeked through beyond, passionate artists had sculpted stories and panoramas and left them for the world to gaze upon. Paint and canvas took on life and throbbed with the heartbeat of the story teller. Some were detailed depictions of places and things, people and events. Others, like the vessels of my Brave Warrior, were broad sketches pulsing with color and song and meaning. I wondered if I could fly in the sky for only a short while, what the brilliant paintings on the wagons of Warrior Fonce would look like.

Dee did not return that day, and for that matter, neither did Nya. I had promised, though there were many times I debated on going back on my word, I had promised to stay close to the wagons of the Brave Warrior. While I felt rather certain I could find those wagons no matter what, with all the changing of positions and getting ready for the move, I didn't want to take a chance. My sentiments matched Dee's - I did not want to start off my new life - lost.