This the shape hidden in the breath of the world... Gleision. Glas. Glasgoch.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

[The dark of the morning, Tuesday, May 4 (day 338)]
[Out where there wasn't supposed to be anything]

Took myself for managing t'be quiet enough alone, and know I can be damn quiet if needs must, but with the cochl o caddug it's...

Actually stepped on a rabbit afore the damn thing took note of me and bolted, thump and brush of fur against my foot and then the rushing bound of it through the grass. Stood there with my own heart racing for a moment and laughed, and nothing went quiet for hearing me, nothing stilled at the sound of someone out walking at night. Alone in darkness, unseen and unknown.

Sweeter dream than a dress of raindrops, this cloak.

Sky's clear but the moon's near to new, and everything's picked out in blues and charcoal greys. Out past where I found the immortal and the fiddleheads with Syl, up against the line of the river, and cutting out along the edge of Excolo. No place I need be and no-one I need answer to, and take a turn up a way I've not been in a while, and when I come to within sight of the place I was making for, the mild grass and scatted of brush, I stop cold in my tracks.

There's a house.

There's a bloody confection of a house, a glut of window and room and railing and step, with the taste of sawn oak still new in the night air, and the hard-earth smell of clay or brick. On land as is--hold off on calling it mine, but on land deeded to me, fine, and no bloody mind for whatever the hell it's doing here. So take myself up to it slow, in a half-circle deosil, and it's not even the size of it that's unsettling, Sentinel House doesn't throw me so. But from what I can see it's not broken up into sizes as'd be useful within, it looks like something Bluebeard'd live in, or Alessandra, or some other folk with enough money to not need worry about sense...

He wouldn't.

No, but he would. Oh, cerflun, you take yourself off out of town and then you set out having this built?

Finish taking a turn around and there's nothing of a size with sense to it, nothing small and neat standing alone and hidden on the other side. There's an ache in my neck when I stand close enough to touch and look up at it, solid bulk and weight that puts me in mind of my ring. Wonder, in passing, who he expects to clean it, and try and see what'd be like when there's flesh on the raw walls and beams and the--hell, I've never had cause to learn the name of half these things, why'd anyone who's not building do so, what'd anyone do with them?

Touch the wall and it sits there solid and cool in the night air, and the grain of the wood's like river-mud rippled and dried. Hear myself laughing again, a little thinner than last time, bouncing back strange against planed and cut edges.

May not have anyone staying under them with me, but I'm near to drowning in roofs, it seems.

[Closed]

This the shape hidden in the breath of the world... Gleision. Glas. Glasgoch.

[glass-beddau.livejournal.com]

[The dark of the morning, Tuesday, May 4 (day 338)]
[Out where there wasn't supposed to be anything]

Took myself for managing t'be quiet enough alone, and know I can be damn quiet if needs must, but with the cochl o caddug it's...

Actually stepped on a rabbit afore the damn thing took note of me and bolted, thump and brush of fur against my foot and then the rushing bound of it through the grass. Stood there with my own heart racing for a moment and laughed, and nothing went quiet for hearing me, nothing stilled at the sound of someone out walking at night. Alone in darkness, unseen and unknown.

Sweeter dream than a dress of raindrops, this cloak.

Sky's clear but the moon's near to new, and everything's picked out in blues and charcoal greys. Out past where I found the immortal and the fiddleheads with Syl, up against the line of the river, and cutting out along the edge of Excolo. No place I need be and no-one I need answer to, and take a turn up a way I've not been in a while, and when I come to within sight of the place I was making for, the mild grass and scatted of brush, I stop cold in my tracks.

There's a house.

There's a bloody confection of a house, a glut of window and room and railing and step, with the taste of sawn oak still new in the night air, and the hard-earth smell of clay or brick. On land as is--hold off on calling it mine, but on land deeded to me, fine, and no bloody mind for whatever the hell it's doing here. So take myself up to it slow, in a half-circle deosil, and it's not even the size of it that's unsettling, Sentinel House doesn't throw me so. But from what I can see it's not broken up into sizes as'd be useful within, it looks like something Bluebeard'd live in, or Alessandra, or some other folk with enough money to not need worry about sense...

He wouldn't.

No, but he would. Oh, cerflun, you take yourself off out of town and then you set out having this built?

Finish taking a turn around and there's nothing of a size with sense to it, nothing small and neat standing alone and hidden on the other side. There's an ache in my neck when I stand close enough to touch and look up at it, solid bulk and weight that puts me in mind of my ring. Wonder, in passing, who he expects to clean it, and try and see what'd be like when there's flesh on the raw walls and beams and the--hell, I've never had cause to learn the name of half these things, why'd anyone who's not building do so, what'd anyone do with them?

Touch the wall and it sits there solid and cool in the night air, and the grain of the wood's like river-mud rippled and dried. Hear myself laughing again, a little thinner than last time, bouncing back strange against planed and cut edges.

May not have anyone staying under them with me, but I'm near to drowning in roofs, it seems.

[Closed]