The days went more or less the same afterwards. Mom takes Gel and I with her to her workplace seven days in a row. Every 8th day is a kind of “sunday”, usually my grandparents come to visit us at our home, grandpa less often as he seems to work outside the city for long periods of time, he is a kind of hunter if I understood correctly what my father explained to me. Talking about jobs, I figured out that dad works at a blacksmith, smelting metals. Big bro Barasti is often accompanying him, doing odd jobs over there (distributing water and meals; carrying messages and such, helping refill coal storage etc..)

On these day off and since I am now older we all go to the bathing house in the morning.

It's a one story tall building with whitewashed walls, a bit larger than our house. The inside is split in two pools of fresh water, large enough to fit a dozen persons.

Every block must have it's own as there aren't that many people in. I get washed and rinsed in lukewarm water before entering the bath itself.

They seem to have an aqueduct and basic plumbing running around at least for clean water supply, I know the main river is a few streets away from here. Or they might be using magic for it, but I doubt it: magicians are not a daily occurrence and I don't think filling bathtubs would be the best use of their abilities.

As a small child I get to go with mom in the women's pool.

As enticing as that might sound, reality leaves me in the lurch once more. Most of the other people bathing are: children like me, old ladies burning my eyes and soul with unwanted memories and finally not-good-looking young ones.

There are a few that are worth the sight (including a voluptuous cat lady called Pilli, her existence alone is blissful for my heart, sight and sanity: sexy catgirls are a thing in this world, hope is still alive).

But the scales are tipping the wrong side overall.

I went with dad in the men's bath once and dearly regretted my foolishness, seeing a forest of shrivelling dongs was even worse.

After bath time we go back home for the only big lunch of the week.

On most days, lunch is just a light meal break with tea and crackers or bread.

“Sunday” (all 8th day have a different name so there are no “sundays” per se) is usually better, with “eggs” (grey, with a darker yolk, leaves a flour-and-nuts aftertaste, but overall quite good), and if grandpa is back from hunting we even get some meat (tastes like chicken) and a bunch of strange vegetables, leaves and roots.

The local staple food is called bunta, it's a verdigris dense bread that doesn't taste much, reminds me of ryebread. This bread is the base of our other meals during the week, accompanying a soup of vegetables and, rarely, a piece of quail like meat.

Fruits are a treat and I have yet to taste candy or cakes. (I've seen biscuits and crackers, but they just aren't cake).

Drinking is tea for us kids, with some occasional fruit juices, the adults drink a watery beer called barok, it's a brew made of bunta and spiced up with various herbs.

On “sunday” afternoons, Dad takes Barasti somewhere outside, he says I'm still too young for whatever they are doing, which grants me a teasing smirk from my big brother.

I usually end up being the play doll of my sister, then listen to one of grandma's stories. On snack time I get a dried fruit or some kind of jam-honey on a slice of bunta bread.

Most stories are like the tales of my earth-life: princes and kings fighting monsters, just with more magic and gods interventions and occasional princesses fighting too.

As I'm now older, I allow myself to interrupt grandma more often when she uses words I don't yet understand. In the end, I learn that the stories are epics: tales of this world's past just as the gods appeared and helped the chosen races to survive the monsters onslaught, told in old speech, thus the unusual words. GrandMa can't even translate some of them, she just learned the tales by heart like one learns to recite a poem.

For the whole Spring, Gel and I keep our training regimen going: cardio, stretching, muscles coordination. Our ball, gifted by Miss Tarina (the boss lady) his heavier than I though once filled with sand, it makes a good medicine ball. I was fearing sand would leak out, but mom and her co-workers did a great job on the stitching, flawlessly sealing the ball.

We usually train/play for an hour or two and then I busy myself with teaching Gel. I help her improve her speech, she is a better student than I expected, her progress is noticeable.

She becomes more serene around me as she gets to know me and gets used to have our gazes cross one another. I take it upon me to not lose myself in her purple lights, as I know it would fluster her.

She rarely graces me with a smile, they are as rare as rain in a drought, making each one of them all the more valuables. If I am deemed a serious child, she is a too stern one.

In the afternoon grandMa often tell us stories or sings us something, “the angry toja” and “Bebo the little meeko” being Gel's favourites lullabies.

The both aren't the best singers, but I don't get much of a choice, and my comrade is enjoying the show.

* * * * * * *

Temperatures are getting warmer, in our courtyard we now often relax under the patio in the welcomed shade. Bright flowers have bloomed around and the air is buzzing with the activity of various flying pests, but also some green coloured butterflies, which, I learned it the hard way, can bite. Exceptionally, our sunny day may get ruined by a flash storm, dousing us in warm water.

In this Summer, Gel and I are joined by 2 newcomers in our kindergarten.

The first new playmate is a bulky straw haired boy, with healthy looking rosy cheeks called Balout. He is clumsy and not the smartest of the bunch, I sometimes can barely understand his babbles. “I Balout, Balou sleep, Balou hungy,”

He spends most of his time with us napping, the boy must have one hell of a nightlife.

The other newcomer is a beastkin cat girl named Melodi, her dusk skin has long grey fur on her upper body and arms, she's got cat ears on the top of her head which twiddle cutely when she focuses her earring. Her malachite green eyes have vertical pupils giving her gaze a hint of cat's mystery, making you wonder if they are plotting your demise or asking to be petted. Whiskers pops out on top of her lip like a moustache. When I ruffle them, she emits the cutest sneeze ever.

Her lower body is furless as far as I can see, except for a tail sprouting from her aptly named tail-bone.

This flawless description of cuteness is ruined by her flat face and nose, like someone slammed a door at her face. She is a “persian” catgirl.

Nonetheless, she's playful and nice and gladly plays ball with Gel and I, whereas Balout's clumsiness makes him not as good a playmate. At least since he spends most of his time sleeping, he isn't much of a bother, especially for Gel who is ill at ease around people and isn't pleased by the arrival of new kids in what became “our” courtyard.

Melodi has a strange accent, or it might be due to her physionomy, but her words are stretched and wheezed. Her vocabulary is still a work in progress, but she can form sentences that have a meaning.

The poor Balout is left confused between Tel, Gel and Mel, still trying to figure who's who when we use shortened versions of our respective names. To him I am “boy” and the others are “girl” and “kitty”, which usually grants him some hissing from said kitten.

Melodi, despite her feline assets, isn't as deft as Gel and I. Our daily regimen has made us far more agile than other 3 years old around here and our team leaves Melodi and Balout's one in the dust when we play not-dodgeball. Well to be honest, whoever was teamed with Balout would have lost too.

Our sandball leaves some impressive bruises all over Balout and we get scolded by mom and miss Tarina on the next day.

This Summer is agreeable, new playmates, temperatures are more amiable for the barefooted lightly dressed me and we get to eat lots of various fruits.