Ambrolen Firth was a rebellious girl whose mother often chased her with a paddle and a pair of scissors. She was keen to do anything and everything that wasn’t proper for a young lady to do and found a way to be elsewhere whenever there was any needlework to do (which was often, as her mother insisted she mend the tears in her dresses herself, though she allowed Ambrolen’s trousers to stay ratty in hopes it would discourage her from wearing them). She had bright red hair the neighbors marveled at, not only because her parents and her grandparents all had pale blonde hair, but also because it nearly reached her shoulders! A proper young lady was to wear her hair cut short, never passing her ears (and even that would be a tad long), and it was the men who wore their hair below their shoulders. However, as has been noted before, Ambrolen Firth was a rebellious girl who was keen to do anything and everything that wasn’t proper for a young lady, though she still could not make herself grow her hair much longer than it was now.
As on any other clear spring day, Ambrolen was up in a great oak tree with a small knife and a chunk of wood she was slowly turning into a wolf. The limb she was sitting on was quite large and was parallel to another large limb, so if she got tired of sitting up, she could easily lie on the two of them and watch the birds and clouds soar past above her. Ambrolen found it a good place to be alone with her thoughts, or with whatever project she was keeping from her mother at the time, like the wolf carving she was working on.
Mrs. Firth, like most others in the village, despised wolves. Wolves killed the villagers’ livestock, hunted all of the game in the forest, and attacked children who wandered too far from an adult’s eye. But to Ambrolen, wolves were beautiful, graceful creatures who only hunted to survive, and shied away from humans unless they were starving. However, the village Elder and some of the older villagers often spoke in hushed tones about men, cursed by Mara, who turned to wolf shaped, mindless beasts and did nothing but kill. Ambrolen shivered, and shook her head, as though to knock loose the silly, though frightening, stories that had taken hold.
“Ambrolen Firth!” Mrs. Firth yelled from under the tree.
Ambrolen jumped and nicked her finger. She had been too caught up in her carving and thinking about wolves and werewolves that she hadn’t notice her mother’s approach. “Yes, Mother?”
“Don’t you “yes, mother” me! You get down here and finish scrubbing those dishes, especially that pot!  Your father’s bringing home a hen tonight, and I need the pot cleaned in order to cook it up.”
“Yes, Mother,” Ambrolen sighed as she began climbing down.
Mrs. Firth scowled at her dirty daughter and the ragged trousers she wore. “The things I let you do, child,” she muttered. She ran a hand over her lightly graying hair that was cut close to the scalp, shorter than most in an effort to balance her daughter’s long hair, Ambrolen supposed.
The pair walked back to their home together, Mrs. Firth grumbled under her breath about her daughter, and Ambrolen attempted to enjoy the flower covered field and the clear, blue sky before she was cooped up with a worn out brush and a cooking pot blackened from the burnt on food of the last few meals. When Ambrolen said as much aloud, her mother told her it was her own fault for not washing it properly the times before, and Ambrolen stubbornly pretended it was because of no such thing.
Grumpily, Ambrolen arrived at their small, wooden house and headed straight for the kitchen to wash the pot. As Mrs. Firth had to prepare for dinner, she followed her daughter and was able to peer over her shoulder to see if she left too many spots. Ambrolen frowned as she picked up the soap and scrub brush. She thrust the two in a bucket of water and began scrubbing the large, black pot, only to stop shortly after with a gasp of pain. She had forgotten she nicked her finger. Ambrolen thrust the injured appendage into her mouth upon seeing the blood, and immediately regretted it, as her finger tasted of soap.
Mrs. Firth only spared her distressed daughter a glance and a tut, as if saying it was entirely her fault to begin with, since proper young ladies did not play with knives. Ambrolen frowned at her mother’s back and continued scrubbing the pot, not bothered by her stinging finger, as it was really the surprised that caused her to gasp more than anything.
After what seemed like hours of scrubbing, Ambrolen presented the pot to her mother who deemed it “acceptable,” and was allowed to run down to the end of the field and wait for her father to get back with the hen.
As she waited at the intersection of the path to her home and the road connecting the three small towns in the area, Ambrolen picked the newly blossomed wildflowers, twisting the stems together to make a bouquet for her mother.
Just as she was getting a good collection of daisies, dandelions, and clovers (her mother’s favorite), Ambrolen felt a pressure under her arms and a great whoosh! as she was launched into the air! She gasped, then landed into a pair of strong arms and laughed happily. “Daddy!”
“Amber! I see you’ve picked some flowers for your mother.” He set Ambrolen on the ground and picked up the bouquet. He lightly brushed it off, and handed it to his daughter. “She should be pleased.”
“Not if you call me “Amber” in front of her,” Ambrolen laughed. “You know how she feels about nick names.”
Mr. Firth let out a hearty chuckle. “Yes, I know how my poppy feels about nicknames. And about long hair.” He ruffled his daughter’s hair playfully.
“And climbing trees, and wood carving,” Ambrolen added, grinning.
“Thus the flowers?”
“Thus the flowers,” Ambrolen confirmed. “So where’s this hen I’ve been hearing about?”
Grinning, her father reached to the ground behind him and brought up a fairly large sack.
Ambrolen clapped her hands together in delight. “Are you sure that’s one hen in there and not two?”
Mr. Firth laughed. “Just the one. I made ol’ Grevell a new bed. Termites got the last one, you see. Said he couldn’t afford such a good piece of work, so he gave me this and a copper instead!”
“Must have been some bed!” Ambrolen smiled and grabbed her father’s hand. “Enough dallying here. Mother’s anxious to get that hen in the pot!” She began dragging him up the trail to their house.
“Finally cleaned it, have you?” Mr. Firth teased, letting himself be pulled along.
Ambrolen only stuck her tongue out in reply.

Dinner was relaxing. Ambrolen’s mother was in a good mood because of the flowers, thus didn’t glare at her hair or clothes throughout the meal as was per usual. Mother and daughter laughed at her father’s stories. Ambrolen’s mother was beautiful when she smiled, and Ambrolen hoped she would be half as beautiful when she was her mother’s age.
   After dinner, Ambrolen and her father washed the dishes and cleared off the table while her mother put more logs on the fire and sat down to her knitting. When father and daughter were done, they each went to their respective pastimes, Mr. Firth sharpening his ax and mending his carpenting tools, and Ambrolen reading Mara’s Healers: Novice. Mrs. Firth noticed what her daughter was doing and nodded in satisfaction to herself, unable to keep a proud smile from her lips. Being a taught healer was an honor as it was, but Ambrolen had Mara’s Blessing and was a natural healer! Mrs. Firth hoped her daughter would one day have the chance to go to a city and be a prophet, maybe one to rival the Blessed Daughter Korai. Sighing happily, she went back to her knitting.
   Ambrolen was engrossed in her reading. Despite her occasional protests of having to study instead of playing in the fields or running down to the village, she quite enjoyed learning about, well, everything, really. She paused in her reading and looked out the window to the moon. According to the book and Healer Corvin, the moon reflected the earth, like a mirror or lake, but instead of reflecting images, it reflected the spirit of the earth and all living things. All natural Healers and even a few learned could “see” basics of the reflection to predict weather or even find herds of deer and flocks of quail for the hunters. It’s said that very strong natural Healers of Mara could even see detailed past and future events, or through the moon, become “one” with the world around them.
   Ambrolen closed her eyes and relaxed, her shoulders drooping and her breathing becoming slower. Tentatively, she tried to open herself up to the world around her and feel… well, whatever it was natural healers were supposed to feel when doing such things. After several long minutes of feeling nothing other than a mite bored and an itch on her nose, Ambrolen grunted with frustration and gave up. Relieving her itch and giving the moon an annoyed glance, she went back to her book.

A knock on the door in the middle of the night. The husband goes, hatchet in hand. The wife hears it drop then silence and creeps out. Mr. Firth is standing, his face grim. A cloaked stranger goes back into the night.

Mother and father watched over their daughter as she slept.
“We’ve been blessed to have had this time with her,” Mr. Firth said.
His wife said nothing, just clutched a letter tightly in her hands, and fought back tears.

Oh hi there! I am momentarily back, after ages of being gone. I do that with forums. lol
This story is in no way set in stone. It has changed so many times that I don't think I can even call it the same story. Right now I'm debating on changing the fact that she's currently on a farm, or at least out in fields it's assumed her family owns, and place her in town, partially because her father is a carpenter, thus I don't see the need for a farm, and partially because I'm lazy and not sure if I want to describe the farm too much (the next chapter has her doing chores early on, and I have to figure out what those chores will be).
I just posted it on here because I've been in the mood for writing, and like posting it randomly. haha No idea if I'll post frequently or be here long at all this time.