I'm not really sure how my body works. I'm almost sure I didn't get a single minute of sleep last night, but I'm honestly still really refreshed, even after a full day's work. It doesn't make any sense to me. I attempted to start sleeping at about 2:30 or so but I just kept tossing and turning and checking my phone every once in awhile to see what time it was. Time continued to advance but I don't recall ever being asleep. That doesn't necessarily mean anything, though. There's at least a decent chance that I slept for several 20 minute increments and I just don't remember it.
But still, with that kind of sleeping pattern I should still feel like crap, right? I didn't. I felt fine after I drank some coffee and I had almost no issues at work today. I didn't even drink any more caffeine. I had a Freeze from Taco Bell and that was it. No coffee, no Red Bull. I'm puzzled as to why I feel this way, but I'm pretty okay with it. I keep expecting a crash but it doesn't come. I'm expecting to get a full night's sleep tonight and then wake up feeling like death as a delayed reaction. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to continue to bathe in coffee.
--
She was a sturdy, squarish young woman with frizzy brown hair pulled haphazardly into a dusty ponytail. Wisps of brown fluttered lackadaisically from the strip of blue cloth struggling to bind her mane. Although she'd done her best to keep her hair tamed, she was constantly aware of strands partially obscuring her vision. It required hourly maintenance to keep in check. She wondered why she bothered. In this sunny, unforgivably hot land, it was considered foolish to sport such a hairstyle, but Brea liked it. It made her feel comfortable. She'd been growing it since she was a child and had been assured on multiple occasions that when she grew older she would develop the urge to cut it. But it never happened. She was an adult now, although a young one--and she still liked it. It was a colossal pain, but she couldn't bear the thought of getting rid of it.
It was definitely hot today, but then again, it was always hot. Her sunbaked complexion and spatter of freckles dotting her face were testament enough to that. Some wore hoods or large hats to shield themselves from the burning sun, but it was never really enough. According to her best friend, Sarah, it was a climate that took a considerable amount of time to become accustomed to. Brea had lived on the plains for the vast majority of her life and therefore was just about as acclimated to it as one could possibly be. She swung her broad brown shoulders side to side as she strode purposefully over the baked yellow earth, savoring the feel of the sun's rays on the nape of her neck and shoulder blades.
Despite Brea's quirky sense of style, she was presently dressed in what would be considered typical plainswoman attire. In such a hot climate, it was necessary to dress accordingly. She was draped in a long, narrow white cloth constructed from a thin but sturdy fabric, bound at the waist with a thick brown sash. This fell slightly below her waist much like a tunic, but left her upper torso largely bare. The tabard-like shirt was relatively loose-fitting as well. Many men and women chose not to wear it at all, instead opting only to wear billowy short pants and sturdy boots. The air was stirring today, though, and Brea thought it might be best to be afforded some protection against the hot wind. It had thus far turned out not to be necessary, however.
Where is she? Brea wondered. Sarah had made it perfectly clear she would be milling around the outskirts of the Jiendo settlement waiting for her, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had evidently been quite excited to tell her something, but would not even so much as give a hint as to what it could possibly be. It was the kind of person she was. She liked to withhold information from people and lord it over them--only to spring it on them in a moment of weakness to shock or surprise them. It was rather manipulative, Brea thought.
Scarcely before she had completed her thought, Brea caught sight of her in the distance. Sarah was pacing nervously around a pitifully withered and tiny tree. She was on the edge of the Stakes, an area where the sunbaked soil of the plains gradually gave way to roughshod rock terrain and dusty brown grasslands. It was not a place that plainspeople spent a lot of time in due to the dangerous wildlife indigenous to the area, none of which were particularly sought after for food. It was a dangerous and mostly pointless area to be in, which made it all the more confusing why Sarah would have asked to meet her there.
"Something's happened," proclaimed Sarah almost before Brea was even in earshot. Her mousy features were screwed up into a mask of what Brea could only read as excitement and--more than a little fear, if she didn't miss her guess.
Unlike Brea or other plainswomen, Sarah balked at the idea of wearing what she described as a "chest strap." Where she had come from, it was unseemly to expose so much flesh, even if were perfectly practical to do so. Brea thought she was just being silly, but she had to admit everyone had their stances they just wouldn't budge on. She absentmindedly touched her hair and shrugged inwardly. Sarah opted for a more "traditional" (by her standards" blouse with silly frills around the collar and short sleeves. Although it was made of a thin fabric, it was the kind of cloth that would easily tear when put through any kind of punishment. Brea had lost count of just how many of those things Sarah had managed to go through while prowling around the outskirts of the Stakes. Perhaps one of these days Sarah would become immersed enough in the plains culture to somewhat set aside her modesty and embrace practicality. Brea touched her hair again. That likely wasn't going to happen for either of them soon.
One concession Sarah had made to the plains culture was an adoption of the popular loose-fitting short pants that Brea herself currently wore. In months past, Sarah had experimented with wearing long leggings and sometimes skirts, but she'd soured on that idea in a relatively short time period. Still, she insisted she'd never wear the tabard shirts--but Brea would likely convince her sooner or later. That's what she liked to believe, anyway. It was the practical thing to do.
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