Topic: With the wind comes memories

Lerida

Date: 2007-11-15 17:40 EST
Lerida stood outside the estate with a suitcase in hand, beaten and a faded orange. Her eyes were tilted to view the large building and the prairies that grew around and away into the endless blue sky horizon. She felt a growing, heavy feeling in her heart being here, alone, with the wind lapping at her skirts and tossing her hair about her face. There was the slightest feeling of being the strings to a violin, or a guitar, being plucked to the minor, in E, a sad shudder that ran throughout her frame.

She had not presented herself out of the haze of an unusually warm day under a dead, leafless tree to reassert their affair or stir the pot. She missed Mish, and wanted some lessons on that gun she had bought. Her interlude with Guthorm had provoked her, given her a sense of her place still in this strange tale of the missing Seer, small Viki, somewhere. It reminded her that she was still a key to pick at some lock in a pocket of night.


She headed for the door, intent on staying a couple nights, heedless of Mrs Mish'Cael's thoughts.

Up the stairs and to the door, rat a tat tat. She stood windblown and covered in amber coloured shadows, head to toe, as the sunset began to spread its sinking light and lengthy shadows across the estate itself to reach the back of her heels.

BottomOfABottle

Date: 2007-11-16 20:37 EST
Even on a day as unforgiving as this, the O'Corr Estate seemed to beam with life and a warm, happy semblence. In the summer, it seemed breezy and invitingly open. In the winter and fall, the sprawling, long ranch-style Estate took on the air of a cozy, embracing house.

Smoke billowed out of three or four chimneys, as well as from a doublewide-sized smokestack snuggled into the back of the O'Corr Distillery. Lights were on in half the rooms, spilling out of the occasionally half-drawn curtained windows.

Leaves skittered across the well-lacquered wooden front porch, skipping merrily into the enormous lawn and off to some unknown destination. There was a long pause inbetween Lerida's knocks and an answer. Finally a shrill and loud voice could be heard in increasing volume, as the sourceless voice drew nearer, it seemed to be addressing someone else inside the house.

"Awc'roihs', Caehlihn! T'aehre's nae waehy ihn 'ehll tha' shae wahs ihnnah ye! Shae jehs wahn'd t' sehll 'er gaoouhds an' ye waehre t'whone mahnnin' t'caouhn'aehr!"

The door started to open, an ornate, heavy oak affair. It was a curiosity of modern engineering how such a toweringly large knocker had been affixed to the wood, but somehow it stayed put. It was the large and detailed O'Corr family crest.

"An' yer luhckaehy tha' Oi wahsnah t'aehre ohr 'D've puh' ye faoouh'--

It was Morgan Na'Ar-Syntanzk, the second-in-command to Molly O'Corr, Rory and Chuckie and everyone else's Ma. She was a radiant, pale redhead. Her hair seemed almost on fire; it wasn't the typical burnt orange color of most redheads, more the color of ripened pumpkins, deep and rich and a mass of thick, medium curls and waves.

Tiny, adorable freckles covered everywhere that could be seen, and everywhere that couldn't (but you'll have to take our word for it). A pair of intensely green eyes, her lips full and drawing into a curious smile.

There was a confused little quirk pulling at her eyebrows, restarting her sentence, this time for the benefit of this unknown caller.

"Evenin' darlin'! Wha' kin we do fer y'?

Her accent disappeared to a certain extent, dropping it as easily as she might darn a pair of Mish'Cael's socks. There seemed to be no evidence of her ever being pregnant, let alone having recently given birth to twins. A disconcerting and jealousy-inducing thing for the other women who knew Morgan.

She stood with one hand on the door's edge, her left, the beyond-enormous diamond ring catching candlelight now and then. She stood and looked and inspected this jazz singer with a suitcase in one hand. This little thing who had come calling on the bright O'Corr house.

Somewhere inside was the jazz singer's quarry. A man of ghastly proportions, the killer in barefeet and finely-tailored, torn clothing. He was cleaning a WWII-era .44.