11-03-2007, 04:43 PM
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Assuming that there is a hayloft in th ebarn. Let me know if there is none! Poe had always been drawn to dead things. Hollow shells and bleached bones, she had even come to carry a small pouch of fragile bird bones when a belt happened to be a part of her haphazardly created ensembles. There had been an old crone on the last ship she had traveled on who had done the same, and whispered they fragmented stories they told to the young lady who still heard them with the ears of a child. They never came to a definite ending, and that one of Poe’s favourite aspects. Because while fascinated with death, she could not take it at face value, as the last word in a complex story. These lands were no exception in her mind. Memories ran thick on every other step she took, but the barn that she wound up in the end held little in the recesses of her mind. She had never tended to or rode the horses that had resided here once, for lack of opportunity and the love of her own feet’s beat. For this fact, it offered small hints of a piece of her past uninvestigated, which made for a nostalgic little discovery. It hadn’t taken long before she had wound up in the hayloft, gravitating to the dusty untouched, and made herself a bed out of the fragrent, limp straw that remained there. On nature’s duvet, she was allowed to drift in and out of past and present, death and life, lost and found. It all became so compact for her in this forgotten territory, and thoughts blended to dreams, sucking her into their depths, until the muffled sounds of the door below spit her out. A quiet, languid yawn slid out of her throat and stretched her jaw before she could muster the effort of lifting herself off of her belly and peeking over the loft’s edge to spy the figure below. Dreadlocks and broad shoulders, pale fur and glimpses of hand-made markings, he was very much the same and very different from when she had last seen him. On the docks, surrounded by the buzz of coming change, of new lands and hopes. It was becoming comically typical of her to fall just an inch short of something that she thought was so sure. They were long gone by the time she woke up, drenched in dirty pier water. A small, sleepy smile pushed that memory away, and she pushed herself a little further over the edge with the soft shuffle of her bedding. Her dark mane was decorated with bits of straw, and hung past her face from above. “Hey you,” she said casually, her lingering dreams doing a better job of veiling her true excitement than she normally could on her own accord. She was far from comparable in lies and conspiracy to her mother, even on a small scale. |