That was Rubi's current mantra as she stomped out to the crappy little stack of broken bricks and grime that they called a well in Haven, a thoroughly dinged pot rattling in hand. Of course they couldn't have running water here. Of course she insists on having a hot bath now and then. To say her mindset was anywhere short of 'complete and utter murder' would be a blatant lie and anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path would say the same. The cold weather did nothing except sour her temper further.
Down went the bucket, more or less tossed off to the side so Rubi could pry a small chunk of loose mortar off the edge of the well (it was a miracle she didn't just yank half of it over tbh - that wasn't a careful removal), leaned over to get a good angle on the well interior, and hucked the misshapen piece of brick down into the darkness like a fastball. There's no answer of crackling ice. No answer of anything, really.
But she's here for water, and water Malone will get. It takes some fumbling to get her numb fingers to work properly - in hindsight finding some mittens or something similar would be a good idea next time - and after two attempts she managed to hook the bucket handle on properly, lowering it as fast as the squeaking winch would allow, and started the tedious process of hauling the full bucket back up. Or attempted to, anyway.
With a squealing, discordant shriek of metal, the rusted pulley gave a violent shake followed by an echoing SNAP from down in the well. Rubi had exactly 1/10th of a second to react before the trailing end of the severed rope came snaking up like a bullwhip and swatted her right in the face with enough force to knock her over. The water and loss of bucket was immediately forgotten in favor of falling flat on her ass and thoroughly abusing the well with a stream of invective that reached the very limits of her cussing arsenal while rolling back and forth on the gravel, both hands jammed firmly to her lacerated forehead and the soon-to-be bruise that would blossom there.
Screw it. No bath was worth this amount of effort or abuse.
no subject
Sample Entry Two: What a crock of bullshit.
That was Rubi's current mantra as she stomped out to the crappy little stack of broken bricks and grime that they called a well in Haven, a thoroughly dinged pot rattling in hand. Of course they couldn't have running water here. Of course she insists on having a hot bath now and then. To say her mindset was anywhere short of 'complete and utter murder' would be a blatant lie and anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path would say the same. The cold weather did nothing except sour her temper further.
Down went the bucket, more or less tossed off to the side so Rubi could pry a small chunk of loose mortar off the edge of the well (it was a miracle she didn't just yank half of it over tbh - that wasn't a careful removal), leaned over to get a good angle on the well interior, and hucked the misshapen piece of brick down into the darkness like a fastball. There's no answer of crackling ice. No answer of anything, really.
But she's here for water, and water Malone will get. It takes some fumbling to get her numb fingers to work properly - in hindsight finding some mittens or something similar would be a good idea next time - and after two attempts she managed to hook the bucket handle on properly, lowering it as fast as the squeaking winch would allow, and started the tedious process of hauling the full bucket back up.
Or attempted to, anyway.
With a squealing, discordant shriek of metal, the rusted pulley gave a violent shake followed by an echoing SNAP from down in the well. Rubi had exactly 1/10th of a second to react before the trailing end of the severed rope came snaking up like a bullwhip and swatted her right in the face with enough force to knock her over.
The water and loss of bucket was immediately forgotten in favor of falling flat on her ass and thoroughly abusing the well with a stream of invective that reached the very limits of her cussing arsenal while rolling back and forth on the gravel, both hands jammed firmly to her lacerated forehead and the soon-to-be bruise that would blossom there.
Screw it. No bath was worth this amount of effort or abuse.