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Her ears cupped toward him and listened intently, blue-green eyes sparkling with interest and curiosity. He spoke rather monotonously, though she supposed he was absorbed in his work. It made no matter, anyhow -- the intonations of the storyteller mattered little to the rusty hybrid. It was the story itself that was most important. This was, no doubt, a dark story. Horses with riders named Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death did not allude to a particularly light-hearted tale. Then again, neither was the battered book tucked safely away in a corner of the schoolhouse.
What he said sounded strangely exotic and familiar all at once, giving rise to even more curiosity in the russet woman. It sounds like something I'd enjoy, she said, smiling. The girl had little idea of the religious implications; she hadn't been raised with much of any religious guidance. Kharma had thought to teach them to read and write and ride and saddle, but god and the spirit world weren't mentioned quite nearly so often as these more practical aspects of life. Yet Myrika was likely to be curious, above all, when she eventually encountered religion and its many thick tomes.
His next words were received with shocked ears, and the woman's thanks showed plainly -- her grin was broad and very nearly dreamy, her words quieted and awed. Thank you. I will be a frequent visitor there, I think, she said, scooting closer to the fire. It wasn't cold, but she was too warmed by his offer to remember her nervousness, and she wanted a closer look at him, anyway. Kaena told me a little about your dad... I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him, the woman ventured, hoping it was not a sore spot. She did not know where Gabriel had gone or what had happened to him after the rocks. Kaena would only grumble nonsensical responses, deliberately avoiding the question. It was part of their history, however, and she would soon be obligated to commit it all to ink and paper.
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