CAN'T TALK, NANO-ING.
Of course I still heart you, now read the story and hush. Mommy has a lot of writing to do.
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Somewhere in Feralas, perched above the relatively calm waters of the western sea, a slender tauren swept the threshold of her new home. It had taken quite a bit of elbow grease and ingenuity to bring all the materials they needed from various lumberyards and machine shops all the way out to the sheer coastal cliffs where they’d decided to build; not to mention the stressful moments leading up to (and during) the lifting of said materials up the side. More than once Libby was sure she’d be flung right out over the ocean, landing miles from shore moments after the broken lift crushed her husband down below.
Fortunately, none of the horrible visions cooked up in the druid’s adrenaline-addled mind during the hoisting process actually came to pass, and they were soon hammering away at lengths of board, creating a frame for their honeymoon house.
They went to bed sore every night for weeks as the frame went up, snuggled into a corner where a niche in the rock would protect the western wall from being buffeted by the constant winds. They slept on a low makeshift mattress in a cave nearby until the walls went up and Libby was able to start housekeeping. Fenniel couldn’t have stopped her if he tried; she was a machine, and it began to look very homely (if a bit sterile) in a remarkably short period of time.
Soon the need for an oven became apparent, and they repeated the hauling process (with much less difficulty, it should be noted). On the day it was installed properly in the place Libby dictated, she baked for the first time in the new house, and it became home. Fenniel tripped into the house from his cave workshop as though he were wafting along on the scent of butter and spices and they sat for some time in the mostly-barren main room, watching the fire burn and eating muffins.
Life in exile was starting to seem pretty good.
Fortunately, none of the horrible visions cooked up in the druid’s adrenaline-addled mind during the hoisting process actually came to pass, and they were soon hammering away at lengths of board, creating a frame for their honeymoon house.
They went to bed sore every night for weeks as the frame went up, snuggled into a corner where a niche in the rock would protect the western wall from being buffeted by the constant winds. They slept on a low makeshift mattress in a cave nearby until the walls went up and Libby was able to start housekeeping. Fenniel couldn’t have stopped her if he tried; she was a machine, and it began to look very homely (if a bit sterile) in a remarkably short period of time.
Soon the need for an oven became apparent, and they repeated the hauling process (with much less difficulty, it should be noted). On the day it was installed properly in the place Libby dictated, she baked for the first time in the new house, and it became home. Fenniel tripped into the house from his cave workshop as though he were wafting along on the scent of butter and spices and they sat for some time in the mostly-barren main room, watching the fire burn and eating muffins.
Life in exile was starting to seem pretty good.
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