a condition, not a profession

Larkspur D'Angelo · 07-19-2011, 04:01 PM

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pray to your god, open your heart

Word Count: ● :>

For a non-native speaker, hearing the common tongue twisted into such a peculiar dialect made it remarkably hard to understand. Larkspur had to sound out the words in his head, repeating them and attempting to translate as best he could. It was difficult. As he had told Sirius, he was not clever. A barbaric intelligence was all he needed to survive; he would do just fine with that.

Stones in the ground. That was a remarkable idea, and Larkspur looked visibly surprised by it. This seemed ingenious to him; it had never even occurred that stones would be able to hold the wood. He wished suddenly this man had been present when the fence was built, but for its size, the beams were sturdy. Tlanti’s child (he did not know what else to call the coyote) had aided him well in the leather weaving, which contained the sheep during the night and horses when they were not in use.

“I am grateful for all help,” he said slowly, sounding out the words as if they were unfamiliar. “I am Larkspur. She is Rowan,” at her name, the dog-wolf looked up attentively. “, she does not speak English. She is my slave.” There was a subtle warning in his voice; he was protective of the girl because she was his.

“I was going to pile the stones on the ground, but your idea is better,” the Arbiter added.

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