South Of The Trees, Sun In Our Eyes
Dec 3, 2013 19:41:20 GMT -5
Post by Ardocc & Mani on Dec 3, 2013 19:41:20 GMT -5
The wood of the wagon creaked laboriously under the supplies Mani had ridden from Marna, through the North Hadarac. They were his annual supply run, and the wood and metal of the wheels threatened a collapse worse than his two aged ponies. The noise carried echoless through the desert air, calm today, without any of the wind to fling little bits into eyes and make clothes static-cling. Anywhere north of the Southern heel of the Du Weldenvarden forest, far to the East, received some shelter of leaves from the winds. The South Hadarac was not so pleasant, and so he intended to skirt the treeline until the last possible moment, but kept a wide birth from the actual trees, and whatever called them home.
Mani wrapped white cloth over his brow and let his soft sun-bleached ringlets fall from the sides of his face to his shoulders; they and his head bobbing left to right with the shift of the wagon. He stared sleepily at the horizon past the pony's pointed ears. On days like these, even the spirits floated slowly, like the wispy clouds above, with no threat of rain. Occasionally one would pour some memory or another into the boy's inner-eye from their life; whatever they fancied. They showed to him what was up ahead: no home in sight.
His reigns lay sloppily in a pile near his bare, tanned feet. The ponies were led dutifully by those spirits who prefer tenderly caring for the animals of the living: calming them, alarming them, leading them through gentle hints of smell. No human, or dwarf, nor even an elf has ever lived a day without the spirits of their world shaping their lives.
It is Mani and his tribe's gift to brush their consciousnesses while still within this world, as spectators to the specters, and to enjoy the knowledge thereof. His eye's seeing nothing but sand, but his mind feeling the collective buzz of life, he rode along feeling safe.
At least, he thought, I am never alone.
Mani wrapped white cloth over his brow and let his soft sun-bleached ringlets fall from the sides of his face to his shoulders; they and his head bobbing left to right with the shift of the wagon. He stared sleepily at the horizon past the pony's pointed ears. On days like these, even the spirits floated slowly, like the wispy clouds above, with no threat of rain. Occasionally one would pour some memory or another into the boy's inner-eye from their life; whatever they fancied. They showed to him what was up ahead: no home in sight.
His reigns lay sloppily in a pile near his bare, tanned feet. The ponies were led dutifully by those spirits who prefer tenderly caring for the animals of the living: calming them, alarming them, leading them through gentle hints of smell. No human, or dwarf, nor even an elf has ever lived a day without the spirits of their world shaping their lives.
It is Mani and his tribe's gift to brush their consciousnesses while still within this world, as spectators to the specters, and to enjoy the knowledge thereof. His eye's seeing nothing but sand, but his mind feeling the collective buzz of life, he rode along feeling safe.
At least, he thought, I am never alone.
