Dance with me in cold clear air.
Mar. 7th, 2009 09:15 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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estdeus_innobis[Morning of Saturday, September 19 (day 111)]
[Out by the Voronin Estate]
Management, oh, hey, Management. It felt so good to hear back from them, it really really did. I mean--look, hey, I know Management aren't saints, but they're--hell. They're family. Not in the real close way, but in a true way. I missed being sure that they knew, you know? Feels like maybe things are a little steadier here, and now I've got a chance to go out and take a look at a few things. It's Saturday, so market's on and I'll need to be back for the afternoon and evening, but right now I've got time.
Get up early in the cold morning and get dressed, jeans and warm socks under my shoes and a T-shirt and a shirt over that and my jacket, and I head out over the Pontarlier into town, and the air's chilly enough to make me notice all the soft baffle of my clothes, holding my own little bubble of warmth steady against the air running quick and cold all around. Not a lot of people around, and my feet are clacking over the bridge and down the stones and hard dirt of the roads until I reach the tall iron gates, edges of rust and the smell of cold cold metal.
And I stop a minute and curl my fingers around the uprights of fence and gate and stand there, feeling the metal press into my hands and breathing in a hint of old smoke, like a long-dead campfire, and I start to worry. Anushka, lovely lovely psychokine wonder, touching and seeing and holding out the wonder of the world like a clock winding up and measuring golden time--no-one from town would've come to hurt her, would they? Running scared and looking for something to blame, missing the wonder and sweep of her and seeing only the strangeness?
Swallow once and slip through the gate and listen to the early-morning silence.
"Lady Voronin?"
[Open to Anushka]
[Closed]
[Out by the Voronin Estate]
Management, oh, hey, Management. It felt so good to hear back from them, it really really did. I mean--look, hey, I know Management aren't saints, but they're--hell. They're family. Not in the real close way, but in a true way. I missed being sure that they knew, you know? Feels like maybe things are a little steadier here, and now I've got a chance to go out and take a look at a few things. It's Saturday, so market's on and I'll need to be back for the afternoon and evening, but right now I've got time.
Get up early in the cold morning and get dressed, jeans and warm socks under my shoes and a T-shirt and a shirt over that and my jacket, and I head out over the Pontarlier into town, and the air's chilly enough to make me notice all the soft baffle of my clothes, holding my own little bubble of warmth steady against the air running quick and cold all around. Not a lot of people around, and my feet are clacking over the bridge and down the stones and hard dirt of the roads until I reach the tall iron gates, edges of rust and the smell of cold cold metal.
And I stop a minute and curl my fingers around the uprights of fence and gate and stand there, feeling the metal press into my hands and breathing in a hint of old smoke, like a long-dead campfire, and I start to worry. Anushka, lovely lovely psychokine wonder, touching and seeing and holding out the wonder of the world like a clock winding up and measuring golden time--no-one from town would've come to hurt her, would they? Running scared and looking for something to blame, missing the wonder and sweep of her and seeing only the strangeness?
Swallow once and slip through the gate and listen to the early-morning silence.
"Lady Voronin?"
[Closed]
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