a sua voz

[Foxglove]

Isthmus of Chigneto, the unclaimed part of Black River Reserve.
Sorry if this is a bit rough. Starting threads isn't exactly my forte.

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Her brothers had visited her last night, appearing from the gloom of her dreams like ghosts from the fog. She did not start; this was no uncommon occurrence. She had grown closer to them in death than she ever had in life, knowing them from the way their spirits wavered near her more from sight. It was for the best—she disliked to look upon them. Elias stood tall, his sooty-gray fur plastered black and sodden to his lean body, spiked and matted. Sometimes he tried to speak to her, but it only sounded of chokes and gurgles. It made sense to her. He no longer spoke the language of breath—he had been claimed by the water, and therefore he could only speak the language of water.


Rodiron was even more fearsome, so much that she often refused to look upon him. On some nights he only appeared as he had died, broken and bleeding, but others the fire manifested itself, his flesh scorched and his pale fur almost all burned away. He could speak, she knew, but he did not. He would just look with empty eyes and, sometimes, nod or shake his head with a faint rasp. They did not speak, merely sat near one another and stared away. When she felt the night fading away and the sun beginning its climb to the top of the sky, she stood and walked away, leaving the spirits of her slain brothers behind.


The girl awoke as the first dawn rays were rising over the mountains, over the ocean. In this time, and when the sun sank in the west at the end of the day, were when the world grew quietest. The murmur of living and dead lessened to the faintest whisper. She closed her eyes, breathing in that silence, savoring it like a favorite flavor upon her tongue. And then it was time to start the day.


Strung along the branches of a pine nearby were a line of several voles, caught last night by her own hand and with the aid of string-traps that she had set the previous day. She climbed, drew them down with shaking hands and then alighted on the ground herself. A few she stashed away with her things in her pack, along with the deerskin which she had slept beneath last night. The one remaining she ate raw, without fire or water. Her brothers had visited her last night—she would respect them that way, and with a bundle of herbs that she tied together and lit. They smoked, for they were damp, and the smoke had a strong but not unappealing smell. It was a poor tribute but it would have to do. She allowed it to burn for several more minutes before stopping the flame, stowing the talisman away. She took some sweetgum to chew, for her stomach still growled emptily, and then she gathered her pack and slung it across her back. She felt she must travel to the ocean, the great sea. Her footsteps took her gradually southeast. There was a long way to go; having nothing else to do she allowed her eyes to unfocus, for the surrounding trees and rocks and streams to become blurry in her sight. It was there that she found the underlying world, the spirits that dwelled there, and she observed them as she traveled.

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