- Messages
- 547
- Character Biography
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Dark clouds, pregnant and ready to burst, had been gathering for days as she travelled ever eastward. That affinity if hers for the weather said it would come, a deluge that might turn the road - barely two ruts cut through a narrow lane between trees - into a mire. The humid air had been oppressive in it's own right for days now.
But now, it rained. Steady drumming sheets of cold water came down, making water run down the remnants of the road, swelling streams and Brooks to the point that they became treacherous to cross. Especially for her.
Dress plastered against a frame that did not quite reach four feet, silver hair dripping a river of water, plastered against her back. The diminutive woman moved along at a steady pace, staff rising and falling, sometimes probing the way ahead to ensure that it was a road and not some washout or puddle half as deep as she was tall.
She tried not to think too much as she went. As was always the case, she had again turned into a wanderer without a home. She had never really belonged anywhere on this prison world, not for anything less fleeting than a handful of years. Always, loss forced her to move on, or the troubles brought about by the peoples of the world. She did not belong here, and history had shown her what causes - hers, theirs, anyone's - brought about.
A shape loomed in the rain. It was late in the day, though it was hard to tell with the rain. Perhaps a few hours before darkness fell, and then she would have to find some makeshift shelter to make the misery less acute. It was not as if the cold or the damp would cause more than discomfort.
The shape resolved itself into a farmhouse. Rain ran off the roof into barrels that overflowed, ran in streams through the yard out in front of the porch. No light poured from the windows, and no smoke marked occupancy, which was strange given that the building seemed to be in good repair, the fences mostly mended. The only thing out of place were four freshly dug graves, the ground still muddy and churned, nothing growing in the soil yet.
The Sidhe stopped and looked at them, a sense of sadness picked up from the surroundings. It was palpable in the air, a mirror to her own loss, greatly numbed by weeks spent traveling.
The woman sighed, and squelched her way across the yard, stepping up to the door. It stood ajar, and the faint smell of sickness wafted from within. The room beyond was dark, and chill.
"Hello?" Her childish voice broke the silence, seemingly overly loud. No answer from within. She caught the whiff of something, something she recognized immediately. The smell of death, buried beneath sickness, and she knew that whoever had dwelt here did no longer.
She stood on the threshhold, a pool of water forming beneath her, and shook her head. Reluctantly, she turned and found a chair on the porch, and sat down heavily in it.
And wept softly.
But now, it rained. Steady drumming sheets of cold water came down, making water run down the remnants of the road, swelling streams and Brooks to the point that they became treacherous to cross. Especially for her.
Dress plastered against a frame that did not quite reach four feet, silver hair dripping a river of water, plastered against her back. The diminutive woman moved along at a steady pace, staff rising and falling, sometimes probing the way ahead to ensure that it was a road and not some washout or puddle half as deep as she was tall.
She tried not to think too much as she went. As was always the case, she had again turned into a wanderer without a home. She had never really belonged anywhere on this prison world, not for anything less fleeting than a handful of years. Always, loss forced her to move on, or the troubles brought about by the peoples of the world. She did not belong here, and history had shown her what causes - hers, theirs, anyone's - brought about.
A shape loomed in the rain. It was late in the day, though it was hard to tell with the rain. Perhaps a few hours before darkness fell, and then she would have to find some makeshift shelter to make the misery less acute. It was not as if the cold or the damp would cause more than discomfort.
The shape resolved itself into a farmhouse. Rain ran off the roof into barrels that overflowed, ran in streams through the yard out in front of the porch. No light poured from the windows, and no smoke marked occupancy, which was strange given that the building seemed to be in good repair, the fences mostly mended. The only thing out of place were four freshly dug graves, the ground still muddy and churned, nothing growing in the soil yet.
The Sidhe stopped and looked at them, a sense of sadness picked up from the surroundings. It was palpable in the air, a mirror to her own loss, greatly numbed by weeks spent traveling.
The woman sighed, and squelched her way across the yard, stepping up to the door. It stood ajar, and the faint smell of sickness wafted from within. The room beyond was dark, and chill.
"Hello?" Her childish voice broke the silence, seemingly overly loud. No answer from within. She caught the whiff of something, something she recognized immediately. The smell of death, buried beneath sickness, and she knew that whoever had dwelt here did no longer.
She stood on the threshhold, a pool of water forming beneath her, and shook her head. Reluctantly, she turned and found a chair on the porch, and sat down heavily in it.
And wept softly.