Random Scribbles · writing

Call me Ginger



Once upon a time in a land far, far away lived a race of red haired people known as Eisenfelders, miners, with complexions that glowed in the sunlight. They worked the iron fields. The citizens all had red hair and skin, some more freckled than others.

In those days, the ore was bountiful and everything rusted. The rivers themselves would rust, assuming the dull titian hue of oxidized iron; but as the iron was mined out, and the fields diminished, the rivers changed. They began to run clear again. Fish and animals returned to the land.

When the iron ran out, people changed. Pigmentations varied as the blush they had carried for generations washed off and faded. Hair colors morphed from red to blonde, brunette, even gray.

Today we all live together with few ginger-haired people remaining. They remind us of the oxide that once permeated the land, but we are all descendants of those miners. We are one people.


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