Post by maeglhachel on Jun 23, 2015 11:43:27 GMT -5
In the golden light of the afternoon, a young woman carries a large tome heading into the forest west of Dhedluk. The leather bound book is still largely covered in dust in spite of obvious signs of somebody having tried to wipe it off. It looks like the covers have been crumbling to new dust more quickly than the old gathered one could be wiped off. And so, an odd mix of a choking musty smell and peach perfume trails behind the redhead as she meanders through the trees humming a tune to herself while a bright smile lights up her face.
When she reaches a lonely and tranquil shrine of some deity of nature, she steers towards a dry place by the edge of the glade where the slanting beams of sunlight fall through the clearing and onto an almost square boulder. The stone is warm and soft to the touch from its lichen cover, a chair and a table all in one, for her to sit down and put the old tome beside her and carefully leaf through its pages. At a certain page, the woman suddenly stops and produces a few scrolls from a little box inside her grey leather bag. She proceeds to arrange a little Nune stone, some fresh fruit, a cookie and a couple of gold coins on the mossy floor in the shade of a large holly bush a mere five feet away from her seat. Then she returns to it in order to recite an incantation off a scroll in an odd language, every movement and undertone of her inflection betraying that she is going through well-practised motions and sounds, rather than words she understands. A little line forms between her brows and she looks to and fro between her scroll and the old tome as if she was somehow blending the words from the two into one complicated singsong. When she stops, there is an anxious moment of silent expectation. Her hands sink to her sides. She does not even dare to breathe, lest she should fail to notice some kind of reaction. And then, all in one sudden and violent shaking and rustle of the holly bush, smacking of lips, and squirting of fruit juice, her gifts disappear from sight.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in whispered communion of the red head and the holly bush.
When she reaches a lonely and tranquil shrine of some deity of nature, she steers towards a dry place by the edge of the glade where the slanting beams of sunlight fall through the clearing and onto an almost square boulder. The stone is warm and soft to the touch from its lichen cover, a chair and a table all in one, for her to sit down and put the old tome beside her and carefully leaf through its pages. At a certain page, the woman suddenly stops and produces a few scrolls from a little box inside her grey leather bag. She proceeds to arrange a little Nune stone, some fresh fruit, a cookie and a couple of gold coins on the mossy floor in the shade of a large holly bush a mere five feet away from her seat. Then she returns to it in order to recite an incantation off a scroll in an odd language, every movement and undertone of her inflection betraying that she is going through well-practised motions and sounds, rather than words she understands. A little line forms between her brows and she looks to and fro between her scroll and the old tome as if she was somehow blending the words from the two into one complicated singsong. When she stops, there is an anxious moment of silent expectation. Her hands sink to her sides. She does not even dare to breathe, lest she should fail to notice some kind of reaction. And then, all in one sudden and violent shaking and rustle of the holly bush, smacking of lips, and squirting of fruit juice, her gifts disappear from sight.
The rest of the afternoon is spent in whispered communion of the red head and the holly bush.