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 Posted: Wed Oct 31, 2007 5:58 pm
Darkness. It was all she had ever know. Darkness, but never silence. Sound told her when she was safe, and where not to go. It told her what the weather was like before she opened the door. Noise told her when she was alone, and echoes warned her of the approach of otehrs. Sound was her friend, in all sense of the word. Except one.
She huddled in a corner, pressed up against the connecting wall between this house and the next. On the other side, a creaking, madness-driven voice ranted loudly, while objects smashed against walls for emphasis. The only other friend she had was in that house, enduring the rage. Despite the sounds, though, Riarne knew that friend was safe, because the crazy old man valued this friend as much as she did.
Their mutual friend was mute herself... though not by some freak of nature, like Riarne herself. No, the creature was merely made that way, for she was a turtle, or something like it. Riarne had found the shelled animal rather odd at first, unusual to touch and without much sound of her own. Eventually she had grown fond of the old animal, and had taken to visiting with the quiet being whenever the tortise's housemate was gone.
Today however that housemate, the mad old man, had come home in a complete rage, ranting about something or other. It had to do with bubbles and laughter, or so he babbled on about. Objects were smashing into the walls to puncutate his ire. The girl didn't worry for the turtle, since she knew the insane crab wouldn't ever hurt her. At least he knew her value too. No, that wasn't what made Riarne shiver inwardly, though she held her body stock still. Another fear held her there.
Didn't he realize? Didn't he know? Such bouts of fierce emotion, such smashings and crashings would bring them. The creepers, the chillers, the sappers of life. The cacklers and the whispereers and other such frights. Things that stole breath and thought from the body. She had heard it happen to others, those less cautious than she. She had heard the screams of terror when such beings attacked. She'd felt the cold chill as they passed her silently by. Oh no, she was never so foolish as to draw their attention. Perhaps that was why she was still alive, when everyone she had known was gone, or dead.
But there, he was settling down. Quiet descended, though her skin prickled with the eyes of evil watchers. Oh, she didn't think they actually were staring at her, but she knew they were near, drawn by the fury and the chaos. This time of destruction was wont to spawn such things, and to nurture them in their wickedness. Even she, such a young and frightened thing, knew this.
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Posted: Thu Nov 01, 2007 4:28 pm
Later that night, when the unseen dangers had receeded and the mad old man next door had seemingly gone to sleep, the blind girl finally moved. She peeled herself away from the corner and crept on silent bare feet across the wooden floor. It normally would creak hideously for anyone traversing it, but Rairne knew. She knew every board, every weak spot. She knew where to step to not make a sound, better than someone who could see.
She emerged onto the moonlit street. Though sunlight she could feel on her face, moonlight was unknown to her. Romantic poets would tell you the kiss of starlight was cool, or that the touch of the moon was a softness against the skin, but Rairne would have laughed at the idea. She never knew the phase of the moon, save when all sorts of madness occured on the same night. From whispers she'd heard, she gathered this tended to happen when the pale globe of light was full, whatever that meant. To her, any light that did not make noise or shed heat was useless.
Tonight she padded her way through streets, staying against walls and slinking in doorways. Given that the moon was indeed full tonight, she could often be clearly seen, a dirty waif with short, scraggly hair, a dirty piece of what once had been yellow cloth wrapped around her eyes. Early on, Rairne had discovered two things. One was that her eyes apparently looked both creepy and fascinating to others. Upon seeing them, they tended to draw nearer, as if they felt they could because of her blindness. And they would stare at her eyes. Oh, they might think she didn't know, but she could feel the intensity of their gazze, and it infuriated her. What business was it of theirs if she could not see? So she had taken to binding her eyes closed, or wearing something to cover her face. But when sickness, violence, and despair had descended, she discovered an advantage to her binding. The cloth across the eyes, often dirty and stained, tended to give the impression of sickness, that her blindness was caused by one of the ailments wracking the city. Now few dared approach her, for fear of catching whatever had cost the girl her sight. It was a handy thing, for a young girl on the streets.
Her stomach never rumbled anymore. It had grown accustomed to her feeding it whenever she could, and not very much at that. Tonight she drew near what her ears told her was an eatery. It once had been quite a prosperous resteraunt, serving the richer crowd. Now it was merely a kitchen that made trades for food, and didn't serve any drink but the most foul beer, stagnant and flat, not to mention warm. Rairne knew because she had stolen a mug herself, once. Some drunkard had staggered out the back door and fallen against the wall to be sick, letting his mug clatter to the ground beside him. While he had been distracted, she had slipped up close and snatched it before scuttling away again with her prize. She still had that mug, in fact. The mug itself wasn't so much an actual mug, but a small, beat up cup made of tin. She kept it tied to her belt, but tucked into the folds of her tatters taht served as a skirt. Or at least, that was what she had to wear for now. It would be getting colder soon, and she'd have to find some sort of leggings, or just wrap her own legs in scraps of cloth she could find.
For now she settled on stalking up to the back entrance of the kitchen, ears primed for trouble or for opportunity. She heard someone coming and ducked behind a pile of crumbled bricks. She heard a hack and spit before the person from the eatery walked a little further the other direction and tossed something into the alleyway with a splash. Footsteps and grumbled complaints marked the woman going back in. Sometimes he cooks deemed things unfit for even their own mouths and threw the ruined remains out. But that had sounded more like a chamberpot than a stew, though. Granted, it might have been a very thin soup, but the increase in stench in the alleyway told her differently.
She sighed and came out from hiding. Time to try another place, with hopes of better luck. She knew nothing edible would come out of this one tonight because the back door had just been locked. Not exactly a key rattling in a lock sound, of course. More like a very heavy kitchen table being shoved against the door and braced. That was the kind of lock most folks could afford these days. At least, those she knew about. Maybe the rich had all moved away, to a better place where nothing was broken. Young Riarine didn't know and didn't care. All the young waif hoped for was a few bits of hardened bread, maybe a smidge of moldy cheese. Just enough to fuel her body for another day. The trick always was actually finding it in her perpetually dark world.
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