Lacernella Rubra

I just realized i never re-added this one...

She could hear nothing but the rushing of tall grass on either side of her, and her own ragged breaths fighting to power through her lungs. In the distance, faintly she could hear a howling, and the soft but strong bounding of padded feet. Her legs pumped wildly against the dew slick grass, though trying with all her might, they moved her no farther then she had been minutes ago. The howling and bounding grew louder, even as her own breathing faded blown into the wind behind her, trailing after her blood red cloak. "I'm coming for you Piroska, my sweet smelling petit chaperon rouge" the deep throated growl echoed in her mind as she fell through the earth and into the dawning of reality.

Sitting bolt upright in bed, Piroska panted heavily with the weight of her dream. Even after many years she could never get the horrific visions out of her head. The wolf had died so many moons ago, when her grandmother and she, along with the woodsman's aid had stuffed the wolf like a thanksgiving turkey, though their filling lacked the soft bread and was heavy with river stones. Piro sighed heavily as her shoulders slackened and she tried to shake away the nightmare. She pulled her body away from the warm clutches of her pillows and covers and slipped into the simple grey sheath dress of her uniform. Guiding her arms into the heavy black sweater she wrapped her now dull and faded red cloak about her shoulder and began down the stairs into the kitchen. "Good Morning, Kristóf, sleep well?" the small mute boy nodded his head happily to Piro, wrapping his small arms as far around her hips as he could. She patted his auburn head gingerly and prodded him towards the table. As she heated the morning's potato soup and softened the bread for breakfast, she let her mind wander over the night's dreams. Somehow the girl in her dreams, although Piro, seemed a stranger now. The lustrous curly blonde hair that used to frame chubby flushed cheeks; now lay in soft waves of golden brown past high cheekbones and a swan like neck to the middle of her lithe slim back.
She was always running, though there was little of that in her reality.

It had been at least fifteen years since the monster had beaten her to her grandmothers house and swallowed the elder whole. Then turning on Piroska herself he ate them both, only to be gutted by a passing woodsman who saw the turmoil. The three had filled the wolf with stones, essentially filling him to wear he could no longer breath. Still Piroska had the scars from the wolves serrated jaws catching her flesh. The Curse of the Rongeur d'Os had been laid upon her that afternoon, and ever since she always dreamed the same scene. Her ten year old self running frantically from a wolf she couldn't kill, a wolf that wanted to devour her, not in flesh, but of soul.

A slight tug on the hem of her dress stirred Piro from her memories. She yelped as the stench of scorched potatoes filled her nostrils, and she deftly pulled the pot form the stove. She carefully served the best of the soup to Kristóf, then what salvageable bit was left she ladled into a wooden bowl and consumed. After breakfast was finished and Kristóf sent off to his day's fun, Piro headed off to work at the metalsmith's. Harsh work though it was, and though she was scorned for doing it, Piro found she had no tolerance for the daily tasks of a demure woman. She never could sit still for long, nor patiently sew her samples after the attack, so despite the abnormal taboo's of learned woman, Piro went and was trained in many of the same trades the men of her village professed. To be sure the best work in the area was often touted to be her own, and the villagers slowly became enamored of her skills and talents.

She was in the middle of drawing some particularly stubborn gold through a mold when she was overcome with the scent of burning oak. Turning she looked up from the metal and felt her heart stop in her chest. No, she felt a human heart stop, she chilled as a stronger, animalistic pumping began contracting within her chest. He was not tall dark, nor handsome, but rather of average height and fair hair. His face, though not ugly, was rugged and scarred. He fought the fires that rages during the summer season each year, she could tell. His grey eyes passed over her own as he blushed. "Good evening Miklos," she murmured. He bowed his head in reply and paused, "Are the new axes ready Piroska?" She sighed and nodded her head, tossing her head in the direction of the storage room. He'd already payed and was visiting on business, he left her sight and grabbed the tools, nodding a farewell as he exited the door. As she returned to her work she looked down to see the thick metal tongs bending in the grip of her hands. She really wished the pounding in her chest would cease.