Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
The drizzle was no more than a whisper upon leaves, through marshy grasses, tingling into stagnant pools with a sound more felt than heard. Even a gore-crow's silken wings might be swallowed up by such a sound, if only the listener had paid attention.
Even so, for all that it was a surprise to be addressed in the middle of nowhere, her reaction was slow. Sluggish, even, with the gradual opening of closed lids to reveal a pair of eyes that held no more color than the drifting fog. As Maea turned her head away from the veiled sky, the motion was that of a dolls. She had always been small, always had an air of something porcelain and frail about her, but the absolute stillness of her now only enhanced that impression.
She did not inhale with surprise. Nor did she blink, more than to reflexively protect eyes from dripping water.
"Ah... Harper. What a surprise." Dead voice. Dead eyes. Whatever this man thought he saw... was but a ghost of a memory of something that had once been alive. It was hard to tell whether the pause was due to lack of recognition, or interest.
Even so, for all that it was a surprise to be addressed in the middle of nowhere, her reaction was slow. Sluggish, even, with the gradual opening of closed lids to reveal a pair of eyes that held no more color than the drifting fog. As Maea turned her head away from the veiled sky, the motion was that of a dolls. She had always been small, always had an air of something porcelain and frail about her, but the absolute stillness of her now only enhanced that impression.
She did not inhale with surprise. Nor did she blink, more than to reflexively protect eyes from dripping water.
"Ah... Harper. What a surprise." Dead voice. Dead eyes. Whatever this man thought he saw... was but a ghost of a memory of something that had once been alive. It was hard to tell whether the pause was due to lack of recognition, or interest.
