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Cyril Darkcloud · 06-11-2007, 01:51 PM

Elsewhere

For Plaxica

The words of the outsider drift upward to her, awkward within the air but discernible all the same. There is sunlight about the tree and she savors its harsh and beautiful brightness. The outsider has not arrived alone – such a curious people, the folk of these lands, who crowd one another and seem to require a group for everything they do – but the woman following him and the child he carries are even more uncomfortable in this place than he is. Her singing stops for a moment as she considers them – a family it would seem. Mother and father and child. Once, years ago, she knew what it was to move as a child in the company of mother and father. Now she has but her father. Her eyes narrow and her vision changes. Color and detail fall away and all she sees is movement, the movement of the father as he carries his child. His movements are stiff and crude as is the way with the outsiders, but there is concern and affection within them. Her glance then turns to the woman who follows behind and she wonders about this following, a moving together yet a movement made with a certain separation. And she wonders then about this man whose voice has traced its awkward path within the winds, this man who moves seeking after something and whose movement carries mother and child along in its wake but does not fully include them. Such a man is a danger – not to her, of course, for there is nothing threatening about him. But to his family…..

She laughs in answer to his question, and her voice has a note of bright freedom about it. “Not wind,” she says, “but sun. I chose this spot because of sun.” She is young, having witnessed but seventeen winters, but she knows well the laws of hospitality even if she does not understand the ways of the outsiders. “Come,” her voice is heavily accented. “There is food ..... and drink. Sit.” Her command of the rude tongue of the outsiders is limited and she is uncertain as to their tastes in either food or drink, but her curiosity regarding these strangers and their unusual mannerisms is greater than her uncertainty. And so it is with a smile that is genuine and eyes that are studious and alert that she greets them and indicates the simply prepared refreshments she has set aside. She had prepared, of course, for a single visitor, and idly wonders if she has provided enough for three.

[ 06-11-2007, 01:57 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]

06-11-2007, 01:51 PM	#258
Cyril Darkcloud Lord Soth Join Date: February 7, 2002 Location: New York Posts: 1,980	Elsewhere For Plaxica The words of the outsider drift upward to her, awkward within the air but discernible all the same. There is sunlight about the tree and she savors its harsh and beautiful brightness. The outsider has not arrived alone – such a curious people, the folk of these lands, who crowd one another and seem to require a group for everything they do – but the woman following him and the child he carries are even more uncomfortable in this place than he is. Her singing stops for a moment as she considers them – a family it would seem. Mother and father and child. Once, years ago, she knew what it was to move as a child in the company of mother and father. Now she has but her father. Her eyes narrow and her vision changes. Color and detail fall away and all she sees is movement, the movement of the father as he carries his child. His movements are stiff and crude as is the way with the outsiders, but there is concern and affection within them. Her glance then turns to the woman who follows behind and she wonders about this following, a moving together yet a movement made with a certain separation. And she wonders then about this man whose voice has traced its awkward path within the winds, this man who moves seeking after something and whose movement carries mother and child along in its wake but does not fully include them. Such a man is a danger – not to her, of course, for there is nothing threatening about him. But to his family….. She laughs in answer to his question, and her voice has a note of bright freedom about it. “Not wind,” she says, “but sun. I chose this spot because of sun.” She is young, having witnessed but seventeen winters, but she knows well the laws of hospitality even if she does not understand the ways of the outsiders. “Come,” her voice is heavily accented. “There is food ..... and drink. Sit.” Her command of the rude tongue of the outsiders is limited and she is uncertain as to their tastes in either food or drink, but her curiosity regarding these strangers and their unusual mannerisms is greater than her uncertainty. And so it is with a smile that is genuine and eyes that are studious and alert that she greets them and indicates the simply prepared refreshments she has set aside. She had prepared, of course, for a single visitor, and idly wonders if she has provided enough for three. [ 06-11-2007, 01:57 PM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]