Melpomene
Writer of Tragedy|Art by ROYTHEART|
The rioting winter winds rattled the cage of branches that surrounded the hamlet.
As the last light fell a chill set in. The skies were stained red and orange, bleeding into the pale grey overcast. They were on the precipice of winter, tipping just from those soft days of autumn into the harsh dread of frozen winds. Leaves browned beneath trampling feet, browned and rotten in the soft soil.
The soft brushing of bared branches against one another mixed with the laughter of children as they ran, chasing a ball before stopping short at the edge of the woods. There they turned, anxious and unwilling to see what lay awaiting in the unknown shadows that shifted with every twist of the wind.
Pressing hard against the sting of cold, Gisella rode upon the pack of her horse. It was skinny, bordering on death. Tired and coming to a halt the moment they reached the edge of town. There were no hopes forcing it further, the feel of horse sweat beneath her hands and the labored breathing of her darling Annabell forced Gisella from the top and into the mud. It reached up sticking to her boots, yanking at her legs as though to trap her in the soft earth.
They had ridden for hours to reach the hamlet. Gisella was tired. Alone, she pulled through the stitches of society. Floating as though a feather caught in the breeze, she was trapped in the power of the current. As though fate had plucked her body from within and flicked it.
Rubbing at her nose which had begun to run the moment the air turned frigid she straightened her braid. A kerchief was tied loosely about her head. Swatched in the thick colorful skirts of the Singer nomads, she did not hide her identity. Instead, she displayed it proudly, trudging with much effort through the mud towards the center of the village.
Others turned, eyes grabbing hard on her for a long moment. Suspicion often touched the hearts of strangers. Between her foreign looks and the whispers of the black secrets shared between the mouths of Singers there came an inherent distrust.
Gisella had learned to ignore it.
They did not know any better. It was a natural reaction of ignorance - to be frightened.
She struggled to pull her items together, juggling her bags until finally settling in on herself, drifting towards the center.
She was in search of a man.
With the rise of disappearances by the forbidden castle, she had few options.
And this may have been her last one.
As the last light fell a chill set in. The skies were stained red and orange, bleeding into the pale grey overcast. They were on the precipice of winter, tipping just from those soft days of autumn into the harsh dread of frozen winds. Leaves browned beneath trampling feet, browned and rotten in the soft soil.
The soft brushing of bared branches against one another mixed with the laughter of children as they ran, chasing a ball before stopping short at the edge of the woods. There they turned, anxious and unwilling to see what lay awaiting in the unknown shadows that shifted with every twist of the wind.
Pressing hard against the sting of cold, Gisella rode upon the pack of her horse. It was skinny, bordering on death. Tired and coming to a halt the moment they reached the edge of town. There were no hopes forcing it further, the feel of horse sweat beneath her hands and the labored breathing of her darling Annabell forced Gisella from the top and into the mud. It reached up sticking to her boots, yanking at her legs as though to trap her in the soft earth.
They had ridden for hours to reach the hamlet. Gisella was tired. Alone, she pulled through the stitches of society. Floating as though a feather caught in the breeze, she was trapped in the power of the current. As though fate had plucked her body from within and flicked it.
Rubbing at her nose which had begun to run the moment the air turned frigid she straightened her braid. A kerchief was tied loosely about her head. Swatched in the thick colorful skirts of the Singer nomads, she did not hide her identity. Instead, she displayed it proudly, trudging with much effort through the mud towards the center of the village.
Others turned, eyes grabbing hard on her for a long moment. Suspicion often touched the hearts of strangers. Between her foreign looks and the whispers of the black secrets shared between the mouths of Singers there came an inherent distrust.
Gisella had learned to ignore it.
They did not know any better. It was a natural reaction of ignorance - to be frightened.
She struggled to pull her items together, juggling her bags until finally settling in on herself, drifting towards the center.
She was in search of a man.
With the rise of disappearances by the forbidden castle, she had few options.
And this may have been her last one.