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For TAOWolf
The streets of this place are empty for the rain is cold and unrelenting and the inviting warmth of hearth fires and the shelter of home conspire to keep those with sense indoors, away from the storm. The absence of both man and beast from these streets, however, does not mean that there is a lack of movement here. In addition to the steady, almost joyful, falling of the rain, the wind weaves its way in an intricate dance between buildings and raindrops. In her arrival near the tavern, the woman with the silver-banded throat steps from the darkness of shadow into the cold of the rain and the dancing of the wind.
Within the dance of the wind lies another dance, a dancing of words spoken with the familiar awkwardness of a foreign accent. Although the accent is familiar, however, the voice is not for it is the voice of a young woman, a voice having more of smile than of grim and stern resolve about it. The words, however, which dance about her hearing are very familiar indeed to the woman: Liath Madadh-allaidh.
Several long seconds these syllables ring within the ears of the woman before dancing upward away from the vacant streets of this place to drift along the roof tops.
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