No one dared to stop her on her trek down memory lane.
Correction, it was her trek down a visible, physical, real road that lead her down a path of many memories.
Now that winter had shed her fine coat over most of the pocket-places within this odd realm, odd town, everywhere golden eyes scanned there was white. White a few inches or a few centimeters thick atop roofs, within the nestled worn trunks of trees everywhere slanted gaze could touch: snow. It grew more difficult in winter for the darkling to blend in with the night. One found it slightly more difficult to stand in shadow and become part of the scenery when the scenery was blinding, sparkling white and she black as pitched sin.
Yet, there was something about the sound of flurry. The feel of the grass between cobblestones sleeping, awaiting spring that had the drow listening far more than usual and calmer. As if the wild blood within her slugged to a languid crawl as the sap in great trees did.
So such languorous blood lurched through veins, leaving a sharp mind to think. When she thought, it was a convoluted, confusing thing?the old Her and the new Her often argued and before she knew it, she was following her feet.
They remembered the way to the forge after all.
Darkened windows reflected in poor street-lights the glass-watery outline of her self. Not so long ago even her reflection would have brought the meaty sides of palm upward to smash into the surface. Not so now. Now, she gazed upon herself steadily with almost a touch of preening cat-pride to the mithril like scars dug deep into her skin. These were her marks of pride, now. Her marks of survival against all odds.
Gold ticked aside to the door, as if she could hear the rapid feet of many gnomes. She did in her memory. But most of all she saw?
Whittled wood chips in a pile at her bare feet. Calipers and metal; the careful murmur of a gnome who dared critic her handiwork to shape a bowl made of finest true silver. The smell of metal, trees, heat and fire, the smell of?
Memories.
They were thick on the air and she realized that there was something she had never done. Something she had finished, but had never given.
Strange what winter did to dark things in the snow.
Correction, it was her trek down a visible, physical, real road that lead her down a path of many memories.
Now that winter had shed her fine coat over most of the pocket-places within this odd realm, odd town, everywhere golden eyes scanned there was white. White a few inches or a few centimeters thick atop roofs, within the nestled worn trunks of trees everywhere slanted gaze could touch: snow. It grew more difficult in winter for the darkling to blend in with the night. One found it slightly more difficult to stand in shadow and become part of the scenery when the scenery was blinding, sparkling white and she black as pitched sin.
Yet, there was something about the sound of flurry. The feel of the grass between cobblestones sleeping, awaiting spring that had the drow listening far more than usual and calmer. As if the wild blood within her slugged to a languid crawl as the sap in great trees did.
So such languorous blood lurched through veins, leaving a sharp mind to think. When she thought, it was a convoluted, confusing thing?the old Her and the new Her often argued and before she knew it, she was following her feet.
They remembered the way to the forge after all.
Darkened windows reflected in poor street-lights the glass-watery outline of her self. Not so long ago even her reflection would have brought the meaty sides of palm upward to smash into the surface. Not so now. Now, she gazed upon herself steadily with almost a touch of preening cat-pride to the mithril like scars dug deep into her skin. These were her marks of pride, now. Her marks of survival against all odds.
Gold ticked aside to the door, as if she could hear the rapid feet of many gnomes. She did in her memory. But most of all she saw?
Whittled wood chips in a pile at her bare feet. Calipers and metal; the careful murmur of a gnome who dared critic her handiwork to shape a bowl made of finest true silver. The smell of metal, trees, heat and fire, the smell of?
Memories.
They were thick on the air and she realized that there was something she had never done. Something she had finished, but had never given.
Strange what winter did to dark things in the snow.