The lass rambled on, and on to herself: breaths growing quicker, and shallower as she looked to the sky.
And it rained.
It poured through the cracks in her helm as she rasped, and coughed.
Her eyes began to darken.
What was she supposed to do again?
She couldn't recall. It's too cold today. How tiring.
And, so she fell to her knees. She pulled a few of the measley fruits from her pocket, staring down at them in her shaking palms: the gloves too loose for her form. Oh. She'd grown thin, hadn't she..?
She hadn't noticed.
The rasps, the wheezing and coughs, came to a halt, as still as a statue.
Slowly, panning toward the clock tower.
Unable to mimic it.
As it rung, marking sunset behind the storm clouds.
A Small Flute
in The Crimson Edict
Posted
Sitting within the walls was a figure, donned in brigandine and plate.
Her helm was pushed up, just enough, for a flute to meet her lips; and so
she played.
The tune rung out in the walls, as people carried on in their daily lives.
Occasionally walking by, she sat by a trough of rainwater, playing, idling, a book on her lap.
And then, one day: she was not there.
Outside, she lingered, within the fields of grapes. Further down the path she went.
She followed a small stream, clanking and clunking as she went, a handful of the small fruits with her.
Wheezing, stumbling. She continued.
Distantly, atop a far hill, laid dozens of aspen trees. Birch trees, oaks, and pines.
Further, she walked, onto Yong Ping. Laying in the middle, for a short while.
People went by, hour by hour, not a word was said to her, until she uttered: "Vhat 'ur zhoze?"
The lanterns drifted. Someone answered her query, with the obvious.
And so she got up, and off she went; loudly, as per usual.
Taking the long way around is what she decided.
She felt cold today.
It . . . really was, cold today, wasn't it?
Her breaths shook as she wandered off the path: up the hills. Her boots kicked through grasses, catching onto rocks.
Tripping, tumbling, trecking on forwards.
And, back she came, to the edge of the beloved grape fields.
"Ah'll.. Make juize tuday! Birzh vuld luike ut... ahn Eekri- Vhere'z Vren, anyway?"
The lass rambled on, and on to herself: breaths growing quicker, and shallower as she looked to the sky.
And it rained.
It poured through the cracks in her helm as she rasped, and coughed.
Her eyes began to darken.
What was she supposed to do again?
She couldn't recall. It's too cold today. How tiring.
And, so she fell to her knees. She pulled a few of the measley fruits from her pocket, staring down at them in her shaking palms: the gloves too loose for her form. Oh. She'd grown thin, hadn't she..?
She hadn't noticed.
The rasps, the wheezing and coughs, came to a halt, as still as a statue.
Slowly, panning toward the clock tower.
Unable to mimic it.
As it rung, marking sunset behind the storm clouds.
It's quiet, until the Clock Tower rings.