WRITING EXERCISE #1

(Check out the author's note at the end of post to learn more about this exercise.)

BAST'S MORNING ROUTINE

Bast wakes to the first glimpse of sun. It presses through the folds of the blinds, brushing her cheeks like greeting kisses. It’s the first taste of warmth—of comfort—in the dead of this winter. Such heat has always reminded her of a mother’s song. It tells her to get up, get a move on. The day is wasting away.

She groans. The sound of it pulls her limbs into a painful stretch, covers shifting in tangles. She rises before the rooster’s signaling call.

The air bites, frigid. It draws her back to the warmth of her bed. Bast flicks her cheeks, feeling that mother’s song urging her once more with every lost minute.

Bast has a strict routine of chores, hunting, and lessons. If she is late to the first responsibility, the entire day with be out of sorts. In many ways, the household is dependent on her to get moving. A curse to some, but the young woman has found great pride in such discipline.

Bast doesn’t bother opening the curtains. Alina still rests in the bed tucked away in the far corner of their shared room, breaths coming with deep pulls. Instead, Bast offers her sister a few more hours of blissful darkness.

While Bast’s days start early, before much of the Basin wakes, Alina’s responsibilities keep her long into the night. As such, the sisters found their own rhythm while sharing a room. Bast respects Alina’s sleep at dawn, and her older sister makes sure the floorboards don’t creek when she finally falls to bed past dusk.

That same wooden floor bites Bast’s toes with cold now, urging her on. Slide out of her nightgown, grab her stockings and woolen socks. She’s slipping from the room before her joints lose the slow clumsiness accompanying the cold.

The hall is stagnant, air filled with the quiet deadness of sleep. If Bast listens hard enough, past the ringing in her ears, she will catch the snores of her mother, vibrating with the threat of bringing the down the house. She slips down the stairs on nimble feet.

The fireplace is starved of its flame, only a faint hint of ember flickers red under a pile of soot. Her attention flits to the firewood rack, finding it empty.

Her head droops, short, choppy hair draping toward her stockings. It seems the Spirits have it out for her hide today.

She slings her father’s cloak over hunched shoulders. The hem drags the ground. Bast would feel sorry for the dirt she’s about to get stained on the material, but the old fool deserves it for not replenishing the wood.  

The wind threatens to tear the door from her clutch. Closing it behind her is a difficult task, leaving Bast swearing to the Spirits.

Calla Lily Bason doesn’t get much snow. Instead, in the thick of winter, the city is ransacked by a war of ice. It covers every surface of the farm. The grass crunches under Bast’s feet. The barn, dirt, and forest all glisten with it with every glint of sun. Bast would find the sight beautiful if it wasn’t so damn cold.

She makes quick, steady work of gathering the firewood. She piles it five stacks high in a cart, wheeling it to rest by the porch. This work brings great comfort. The movement, the steady use of her muscles lights a fiery warmth to her bones. As long as she keeps working, the world doesn’t bite so sharply. Gathering the wood was the hard task, starting the fire in the hearth takes mere moments. Soon, the flames blaze and crack. Heat makes its way through the house.

Her family will soon rise, bare toes touching warm wood instead of ice.

Bast goes about the rest of her morning, thoughts always three steps ahead. As she feeds the horses and chickens, she makes quick count of how many weeks of feed remain. She shovels the bedding, leaving it for her father to layer in the fields. And once she gets going on her final and most favored chore, the first hint of light flickers behind a bedroom window.

Her parents are awake.

The wood cracks as Bast heaves the axe, splitting the log with ease. She wipes a rag across her browbone just as the front door opens.

Her father limps across the lawn in nothing but a tattered shirt and wool trousers.

Bast inherited her size from her father, standing heads taller than most women in the Basin. Faris is burly as the greatest bear in winter. Some would think he layers his sweaters and stockings, but Faris is all meat and muscle. Nothing could unbalance the brute.

Bast swings the axe in an arch, chopping another log with a deafening crack.

“You woke me with all that ruckus,” Faris says.

Bast raises a brow. A smile tugs at her lips. “Good morning to you too.”

Her father holds a steaming mug in each monstrous hand. He offers one to her. She takes it with a light thanks, smelling earthy bitterness. The taste coats her mouth with warmth.

Faris observes the copped wood littering the icy ground with his single eye. The patch over the other gleams gold in morning light. “Nice work.” It’s a grunt of a complement.

Bast grunts in return.

“Got the stock fed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Pile these up when you’re done. Don’t want us going cold now.”

Bast’s brow raises further. “Like we did last night?”

Faris takes a long, heavy swig of coffee. “Right.”

Bast is fully grinning now. It’s a crooked smirk flashing sharp canines. “And whose fault was that?”

A smile of his own peaks out beneath a thick, red beard. “No reason to go pointing fingers. Let’s just not let it happen again.”

And it’s as Faris is teetering back to the house that he says over a shoulder, “And put my cloak back! It’s colder than a Siren’s arse.”

Bast’s croaking laugh echoes against the sky. A flock of crows join in with their own cries of glee.

#

Bast’s parents are whirlwind in the kitchen. Faris stands at the stove, sizzling meat attacking his cheeks with each pop. Her mother, Fatima, whips something fluffy and sweet in a mixing bowl. Fatima is already dressed, all prim and proper, for her work at the Jarl’s estate. Her graying hair is pinned into a tidy bun at the base of her neck. Her green skirts swish with every twisted movement. It’s Fatima’s typical garb. Nothing out of the ordinary. But, like every morning, Faris can’t keep his eye off her.

So foolishly in love after decades together. It’s nauseatingly sweet.

Fatima snaps her fingers three times at her daughter. “Bast dear, did you get the eggs?”

Bast stops the movement of shucking off her father’s cloak. “Did Alina not?”

It was her older sister’s chore, after all.

Her mother whisks faster. “You know how Alina is. She didn’t get home until late. Can you go fetch them for me, just this once?”

Bast knows it won’t just be this once. It’ll happen on many mornings to come, as it has in the past, but she says nothing to combat the request. Out into the cold she goes once more, tucking the large brown eggs into her pockets before jogging to the warm kitchen.

She unloads her gatherings into a basket. Fatima rounds around her, brushes Bast’s hair behind an ear and settles a peck on her cheek. “Thank you dear. Now, have you eaten?”

Bast settles into a rickety, kitchen chair. “I was thinking of going and getting an early start on the hunt—”

Fatima raises a thin brow, eyes piercing.”

Bast sighs. “No, I haven’t eaten.”

“Then you’ll stay for breakfast.”

Bast gnaws on her cheek. She and Ove made plans yesterday to go check their traps together. They promised an hour after daybreak and the minutes are passing. “I’m not very hungry, ma.”

Fatima hisses, whisking aggressively before placing the bowl next to Faris. “How are you planning to get through the day without protein?”

Bast grumbles about being a grown adult against her palm.

“Listen to your mother,” Faris calls, then yelps when sizzling oil bursts.

Her parents finish breakfast and make a generous spread of sausage, eggs, and a sweet breakfast bun. Alina still rests upstairs, which simply means more bread for Bast. Somehow, she also manages to get served double the amount of sausage compared to her parents. No doubt to the fault of Fatima sneaking the patties onto her daughter’s plate.

When the last egg is consumed, Bast rises. She makes quick work of gathering her belongings for hunting and afternoon classes.

She goes to grab a cloak by the door and halts with Faris’s strong huff. Snickering, she swings on her own. “I’ll be back for dinner. Is there anything you need me to grab while in town?”

“I don’t believe so,” Fatima says, wiping her lips.

“Hunt well,” Faris calls with a raised mug. He’s already on his second coffee. He’ll no doubt buy another once in town.

And out Bast goes. By this point, the cold is familiar. It doesn’t steal her breath, and she closes the door with practiced ease. The sun hangs eye level with the trees. The pines glisten like holy gems.

She’s late, but Ove shouldn’t mind. They’ll make quick work of the traps before meeting Echo in town for morning tea. Yes, everything will remain in order. And tomorrow, Bast will wake and fumble through the motions once again.

#

Author's Note

The purpose of this exercise was not to be exciting, but to learn more about my main character, Bast. And, in truth, that became the most difficult part of writing this short piece. It was difficult writing something that was supposed to be mundane. To complete the exercise, there can't be a major plot, a great trial, a large adventure. It is simply the writer exploring their character outside of their troubles. What are they like on a regular day off screen? I had to take a break after writing the first few sentences to really sit down with Bast in my head and see what she does outside of "The Wayfarers". Once I got to understand her and wrote this piece, I had more fun than what I was expecting.

One of the greater revision points I will be making for the book is expanding on relationships. In the current draft, I feel I didn't depict Bast's feelings for her friends and family appropriately based on her character. (Most of this comes from me writing the story when I was an angsty teen.) This exercise in particular really gave me insight on how she is with her parents and some background on her view of her sister, as well. I feel so excited to pick this project up again now that I have grown as a person and writer. I hope you all like these silly little exercises as well! Hopefully they get you excited for the real thing! Thank you for reading!