12-31-2007, 03:27 AM
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Augh. Christmases (plus two birthdays) = activity death. I think it ends here, but I really enjoyed it! Maybe he could react, and then we close this thread? And for the record, the words she's borrowing? They're from Storm Constantine's books, but I can't remember which one. She felt youth’s lacking like a bite-chunk out of her bones, and yet, a comment about advancing age would have met with a blink. They were old oaks, the heights that saplings aspired to or ran from, a shade over ferns and lesser things. They were not old oaks, they were a lupine woman and a wolf-man with a severed ear, and they had so many more things on the biological schedule, it could make grandmothers cough up yesterday-dust. They roved more than one borderland tonight, it seems. To the scene he described, she could only offer up a genuine grin, something with little market value and less kick; its infrequency made it a treasure of sorts, but only to Luz’s longest acquaintences, who knew its number lay safely within that which one might count on a whole hand. “Yes,” agreed astronomer with warrior. “It is beautiful. But it is a special kind of beauty.” An ammendment, acknowledged with nose-wrinkle and a tiny head-shake. “Not special. Rather, a specific kind of beauty.” Her face fidgeted with the next words, uncomfortable with this half-quoting, though it was accurate, and suitable to the night she found herself in. “Its loveliness is as the loveliness of the grave-blossom.” A turn of the head, towards him. “What makes it sleek, what makes it bloom, what makes it thrive, is probably corrupt.” A serrated smile, filled with jagged teeth and satisfaction in bitter things. “I’m borrowing words, but they are the best ones, for it, methinks.” They’d reached the edge of the Moaning Wood, where the dying trees turned to ghosts and December ravages, made all the more sweet for the bits of frost. “Goodnight, Skoll.” From eyes to ears, her eyes flicked. “Warrior.” She was stepping backwards, into convenient shades and shadows contrived by that odd zig-zag of branches. “I do hope we see each other again.” Luz Cresceno pivoted, now solely facing her desitination, but two steps left her hesitating. “You seem like a good sort, to me,” she declared, in a volume somewhere between whisper and tight-jawed statement, still not turning to face him. Even to her, the sentence was cryptic. Why say such a thing? Because it was true, because sometimes near-strangers must say these things, because someone must risk scrutiny for honest moments. Because, as always aforementioned, this is Luz Cresceno. As her strides resumed their confidence, her pillowcase (left against that tree) crawled into cognition. No matter. She’d scuttle back tomorrow for them. The chance of theft was worth the friend that, dubious intuition, told her she’d made. |