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The waking kind of dream
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Set in Drifter Bay.
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The waves of the bay, rolled to and fro, quietly rumbling under a vigilant moon and surrounding clouds of gray. A light flickered on the beach, shimmering invitingly in the darkness as if a mirage. She sat beside the light, medium flames born of sun-burnt driftwood and a spark from flint. Her back was pressed against the curve of a broken log, her eyes on her hands that worked diligently amongst a few things she had collected on the beach that day. A few seashells, some small scrapes of wood and a few bones of some large creature that had died here—maybe a horse.
She hadn’t returned to Sunflower Sunsets yet to retrieve what other little belongings she had, meaning that she was still without her sarong or bag. She adorned nothing but her garter that was presently free of her throwing knife; it was in her hand, carving wood under the careful guide of Wintersea’s practiced hand. She was crafting a new knife, constructed of the bone, a wooden handle and a decoration and added sharpness of seashell fragments.
River-blue eyes never leaving her hands, she began to hum a small tune to herself, comforted by the backdrop of firelight, the soothing sway of it in her peripheral and the light crackle of the sparks.
| | table by magic mushroom. [/html]
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