Without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.

[sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Saturday, February 20 (day 265)]
[Market on Main Street]

I have not seen the woman from last week, the one who was happier when she wore and bought my blue one. At least I am fairly sure I have not seen her; I do think I could place her again, mask or not. But that doesn't mean much, a young woman hiding in drapes of cloth not returned to a street market, and maybe she will be out again and maybe she won't.

The clouds slip smoothly over the sky, dappling the streets and presenting a canvas to the eye. Here a cat; there a pear; there a bull. The snow is gone, but the grass and leaves haven't come back yet, and I think the unrelenting browns of the landscape are beginning to grate. I remember learning to mix pigments and dyes, and there are nearly infinite ways of mixing mud, he said.

Certainly I think the trinkets have caught the eye a little more than I'd expect them to have done last month. If I catch that little voyou who made off with the green hairpin...

I smile at myself, playing the part of offended merchant, and go back to whittling a shape into a piece of oak. A feather, maybe, or a leaf, or just a polished and sanded twist that's a pleasure to hold--I haven't decided yet.

[Open]
[Closed]

Without wearing any mask we are conscious of, we have a special face for each friend.

[sapphira-ststep.livejournal.com]

[Late morning of Saturday, February 20 (day 265)]
[Market on Main Street]

I have not seen the woman from last week, the one who was happier when she wore and bought my blue one. At least I am fairly sure I have not seen her; I do think I could place her again, mask or not. But that doesn't mean much, a young woman hiding in drapes of cloth not returned to a street market, and maybe she will be out again and maybe she won't.

The clouds slip smoothly over the sky, dappling the streets and presenting a canvas to the eye. Here a cat; there a pear; there a bull. The snow is gone, but the grass and leaves haven't come back yet, and I think the unrelenting browns of the landscape are beginning to grate. I remember learning to mix pigments and dyes, and there are nearly infinite ways of mixing mud, he said.

Certainly I think the trinkets have caught the eye a little more than I'd expect them to have done last month. If I catch that little voyou who made off with the green hairpin...

I smile at myself, playing the part of offended merchant, and go back to whittling a shape into a piece of oak. A feather, maybe, or a leaf, or just a polished and sanded twist that's a pleasure to hold--I haven't decided yet.

[Open]
[Closed]

His stories..... (cont.)

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

February 18th, evening

[continued from here.]

Iblis, dressed in a new body, goes to the tavern to drown his sorrows. There he encounters Syl, there for the same reason. After some commiseration about their remarkably similar personal lives, the two of them retire to Syl's wagon back on the Carnival Lot.

( Cut for adult content. )

His stories..... (cont.)

[syl-thorn.livejournal.com]

February 18th, evening

[continued from here.]

Iblis, dressed in a new body, goes to the tavern to drown his sorrows. There he encounters Syl, there for the same reason. After some commiseration about their remarkably similar personal lives, the two of them retire to Syl's wagon back on the Carnival Lot.

( Cut for adult content. )