[ Silco watches the girl out of the corner of his (good) eye, a sliver of smoke escaping through his lips as she leans over to pluck the wreath from the water, droplets darkening the front of her dress. An odd pause hangs in the air, cut short as he huffs out a laugh, affects at least a measure of friendliness.
She doesn't belong here. That, at least, he can tell, as easily as one can distinguish between fresh and spoiled fruit. ]
It's a pretty thought, but no.
[ Not, at least, like this — not this easily. He knows the ways in which the water gives and takes, and this, as he sees it, is hardly about the lake at all. Just fanciful notions of the passing of seasons, largely unaware of how lucky they are to have any of it — light, clean water, fresh air, let alone the latitude for love and connection.
With a nod at the wreath, playing along: ] Is it what you imagined, of yours? Fit for a dashing prince or princess?
no subject
She doesn't belong here. That, at least, he can tell, as easily as one can distinguish between fresh and spoiled fruit. ]
It's a pretty thought, but no.
[ Not, at least, like this — not this easily. He knows the ways in which the water gives and takes, and this, as he sees it, is hardly about the lake at all. Just fanciful notions of the passing of seasons, largely unaware of how lucky they are to have any of it — light, clean water, fresh air, let alone the latitude for love and connection.
With a nod at the wreath, playing along: ] Is it what you imagined, of yours? Fit for a dashing prince or princess?