Chatterbox: Inkwell

Hello! This is de 1st part of a StOrY (sorry I'm really HyPeR right now)!!!!!!!!!!

What do ya'll ThInK?????

(You can guess WhO I aM if you want *evil laugh* And if you look around enough I THINK there might be some clues on other threads.....maybe........and if there are I didn't put them there intentionally, FYI)

This was no life for a woman like her mother. Why, Mugglem was the last place her mother deserved to be. The clear-eyed, curly-haired girl sighed as she gazed through the window at the rolling plains of Jetal. Somewhere out there was her home, her mother's home, the place where they were supposed to be.

"Dëcalayr!" Dëcalayr was interrupted by the very subject of her thoughts.

"Dayk, could you help me with these dishes, please?"

Dëcalayr's mother stood at the counter in the back kitchen, which had large jugs of ale along the wall, tables heaped with dirty dishes, and a horrible odor, though by now Dayk and her mother were used to it. Dust lay on the floor and the windows (one of which was broken) were uncleaned.

To Dëcalayr at least, her mother, Laylo, was the most beautiful person on the planet, and looked very out-of-place  in the Flailing Tail, a dirty pub slash restaurant in the rebel city of Mugglem (known to the other people, "true Jetalians", of the country of Jetal as Ophidia). Laylo was very tall and pale, though there were still a few freckles on her face, lingering from the days before she and Dayk came to Mugglem, and they had played in the sunlit fields, and Baby Setanah and Dad were still alive. Her eyes (Laylo's) were a beautiful deep hazel, which always seemed to Dëcalayr like a deep forest which she thought she knew, but then she wandered deeper and became lost in the forest's glory and majesty. Laylo's brown hair, which had once been straight and shining, was now mussed under her hairnet, frizzy in the pub's stifling heat.

"Why doesn't Warin help you?" Dayk asked as she took a plate over to the creaking pump where her mother stood. "It's his turn, not mine."

"He says he's tending the garden, since Jordel's sick. Though we know what he's really doing: smoking, where his wife can't see. I'm sorry, Dayk, but I can't do all these alone; who knows when he'll come in again."

"It's a pleasure to help you, mother," Dayk said with only a bit of unsincerity.

Just then the manager, Ronanen, stepped in. "Hurry up, won't you, and where's that scoundrel Warin!"

"In the back, sir," said Laylo stiffly. Dêcalayr picked up a mug and began to scrub it furiously. She knew the smell would be even worse when Warin came in again.

She had hoped Ronanen would yell at Warin longer than usual, but sooner or later he would have to enter the Flailing Tail again, and enter he did. Smelling strongly of tobacco, he grabbed a plate that Laylo had just washed and a cloth and began to dry it, his hands, and the cloth, making it just as dirty as before.

Dëcalayr sighed. She wanted so badly to return to the clean fields, to the small village of Kindor she loved so well, away from the stench, profanity, violence, and poverty that roved the streets of the City of Snakes. 

to be continued, probably