stoneface.

[Luz Cresceno]

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For Skoll, in the Moaning Wood. Set on November 22nd. __________________________________________She had no great love of auld places, those nooks so laden with emotion and searing seconds that they possessed a half-life of their own, the ancient forests, the molding castles. Yet here she was again amongst the castoff sentiments and nettle-weeds, all alone save for that curious sensation that trees sometimes offer – as if they too observe. Tonight was as all other preceding evenings: the astronomer strode in a mockery of werewolf elegance amongst the lesser shadows, her tattercoat greys in top form amid the other chromeless lovelies, the sole sparks in her eyes only snatched reflections of greater stars. How perversely certain her footsteps seemed in this hour of imps and nightengales! How forlorn she looked, lacking all decoration save a single opal necklace that nestled (rather suitably) over her heart. This was all usual, all perfectly matching some hundred other nights. Even the stage – with its dark and dour trees that smelled so strongly of death – lacked strangeness. Perhaps she'd merely tumbled through memory's cellar door, and now walked among other wolds she'd known; perhaps, being a heartsick someone, Luz Cresceno's senses smeared all circumstances until, indeed, they seemed the same. Little matter. Her mind was not tracing tired paths of regret, for the astronomer rarely rued and often forgot – two conditions for a clean conscience. The aches under her ribcage went without mental remark. November's small cruelties (chilled air, biting breezes) locked her thoughts in less frequented rooms of the head, where they blossomed into pitfalls for perilous examinations later. Her fingers fished from her makeshift haversack a star-chart or two, bound by twin periwinkle ribbons. A matter of movements found Miss Cresceno propped against a grandfather oak in a position of contemplation, her legs lightly bent that she might press her celestial maps against them. The array of brass instruments, one by one, found their way into her capable fingertips. Measurements were made. Conclusions, like bronze coins from a velvet purse, were drawn and adjusted. A sigh marked suddenly recalled realization – that Luz Cresceno, braver of two continents and collector of some double-dozen conquests, now found herself a lovesick five-year-old. Surrounded by the tools of her trade, tapping a re-rolled scroll (one coated with knowledge the local lodestars) against her mouth thoughtfully, the she-dog suddenly found herself an idyllic picture. Had her eyes been some shade more tender than hard amethyst, she might have been a bit more concerned about it.

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