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Post by Lancet && Jones on May 31, 2008 8:28:27 GMT -5
She laughed, a soft laugh, and started to sing, ever so chronically quietly, almost inaudibly. "Tra môr yn fur i'r bur hoff bau, O bydded i'r hen iaith barhau..." She breathed, picking at the hem of her pinny carefully. Sometimes she felt so homesick, for the land where her tongue could be understood and the voice of her people was fluent. Not this polluted world of the English where they spoke so curtly and without thought.
Maybe that was why she felt she could talk to Connell. He was not English. He was Celtic, and she was Celtic, and though they were from across the Irish sea she felt as though there was someone who was not a boring, top-hatted suited face, glaring down at her insignificant self. Just because she was foreign. Which she never understood. She consoled herself with letters home, and the song of her fathers. And the quiet tone of the wind.
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Post by Phoenix on Jun 2, 2008 10:30:21 GMT -5
Connell moved slightly so his back was against the stone bench as she began to sing, barely saying anything, eyes ever so slowly closing. It reminded of the lullaby his mother had used to sing to him to get him to sleep. He slowly open ed his eyes, now just watching ahead of him, his mind elsewhere, thinking back to his home country.
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Post by Lancet && Jones on Jun 2, 2008 10:48:55 GMT -5
She sighed again, her breath freezing more certainly now upon the air before taking flight, like enchanted clouds across the sky.
Enchantments. What a silly thing to believe in, she thought, watching her breath, greenish eyes now returned to their usual sea colour, the air from her lungs drifting away into nothingness. She raked her fingers through the loose strands of hair, pushing them back into the neat bun atop her head, folding the linen over it carefully. She straightened her pinny before getting to her feet, pausing to look at Connell for a moment, making a decision.
"It's too cold in the open air, come and stand under the arcs." She said, beckoning as she picked up her basket of snowdrops, heading towards the spidery shadows that were threatening to consume the world. She stepped under them, the mere representation of stone closing over her like a veil before she passed into the hall, the moonlight gone and replaced by few flickering oil candles that burnt to maintain just enough light. Though several had been extinguished by the wind.
She placed the snowdrops at the base of a pillar, the stone masonry towering above it as if to make each petal feel so small and insignificant. Cerith's fingers traced the stone for just a second, running over the carefully constructed grooves, hand-cut by some worn workman, so loving of every piece of stone that went into the building. Even the ceiling of just the corridor was beautiful, gargoyles in each corner as the buttresses flew neatly from the walls. It was beautiful.
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