A story.
Petra figured a story would hearten them, take their minds off their resentments.
Though it was almost noon, godshade had brought a night-thick darkness. Snow hissed on the school tent’s roof. Inside, one small lamp produced too little light for lessons. Anyway, the teacher had left Petra in charge.
With the young kin cross-legged around her, she told a favorite story of Kastra, of that far off time when the legendary scout tracked juggers in the wastelands. Without the teacher present, she could embellish as she pleased. While she spoke, the youngest listened enrapt, the oldest with their heads turned sideways, only pretending to whisper mean jokes.
“Though weak from hunger, Kastra followed the juggers to the Pan of Drood, not so far from here,” said Petra, her voice ominous. “At dusk she looked across that fearful bog, where the blood of thousands soaked the peat, and afterward the bodies of the slain sank and rotted where they fell, and none received …