A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words

[vitamin_kitten]

OOC Thread

Beneath the dark and stormy sea,
There lies something long and vast.
And what, you ask, this object be?
An old ship with a broken mast.
And from the sea comes the great mast,
At the same time every year.
So when the waves start to crash,
You know that time is near.
And when the whole boat starts to rise,
You can always hear,
The sirens and their singing cries,
Of growing excitement and fear.
There’s not just one boat but three or four,
All with sails flying in the wind,
They’re looking for the largest shore,
So their treasures they can spend.
And once they’ve spent all their precious gold,
And told the landsmen all they know,
They carry all the loot they can hold,
And back down the ships must go.
So, if you see a boat disappear,
And you think you’re eyes are proving wrong,
Just listen carefully and you will hear,
The melody of the siren’s songs.

Silent tears coursed down her face, falling in small drops along her thin, outstretched arms, landing nowhere near the heavy trays of food and ale that she balanced – not that anyone would have noticed in the least, anyway. The air of the tavern was thick with the heady scent of pipe smoke and spilled beer, raucous laughter and bawdy jokes, as the patrons continued on, mindful only of their own night’s entertainment and pleasures.

But even if not a single other person there had made note of the troubadour’s song, Liliandra did. And she wept, without a single thought to her dignity, nor whether she would be mocked or laughed at or – far less likely – find pity in a stranger’s gaze. As quietly and unnoticed as a shadow, she managed to move with relative ease – and even a certain amount of grace - between the half-drunken patrons, among the tables and the chairs, despite the pronounced limp that so obviously hampered her gait. The misshapen right foot hit the floor boards with a far harder *thunk* than her left, her whole body dipping only slightly when she compensated, as only one who had borne this burden for years could have managed.

And so Liliandra moved between the tables, delivering the plates heaped with food, and the sloshing mugs of ale, with nary a second glance or a mumbled word of thanks from a single person. She would have it no other way at that moment though, lost as she was in her own troubled thoughts, every bit as tempest-tossed as the sea the young troubadour had sung of. And when the last order had been dutifully brought out, young Liliandra took a moment to wipe the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand.

She spared a glance then out one small, grimy window, to the magnificence that lay just beyond these thin walls – walls that may as well have been constructed of granite and mortar, for the prison this place had become to the young woman. Ah, but just beyond…

The sun was setting over the sea, casting the sky and the waves in a red hue so breathtakingly intense it seemed almost painful to behold. Reds the color of a dancing dress, the color of a rose, the very color of blood seemed to fight for supremacy before finally succumbing to the black of night… Liliandra sighed as she wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, where her beloved lay that night.

She did not fear, as some others might, that he lay with another woman. No, not her Stefan. But the troubadour’s song? Oh, how that spoke to her broken heart. No, it was the sea… the sea had taken her Stefan, though she knew not how, and she knew not where. None had ever seen the wreck of his ship, not so much as a plank or a piece of sail. Just the weeks that had stretched into months… into years…

Catching the cook’s stern eye as he peered out from the door, the young woman moved back to the kitchens with a speed that far belied her gait, head down and still lost in her own thoughts.

And her plans.

Liliandra was a woman of quiet resolve – when the time was right she would set out, to reclaim that which the terrible sea had stolen, one way or another.

[vitamin_kitten]

With the sun now tucked safely away for the evening, a storm to match Liliandra's despondency appeared to be rolling in. Heavy clouds appeared where, only little more than an hour ago, a palette of reds, pinks, and oranges was stretched artistically across the sky. They swirled and rolled and churned, causing the ocean beneath them to do the same. The waves leapt and crashed against one another, and the wind was beginning to pick up. The patrons of the tavern may have been oblivious to it, but a drastic change of weather was on its way.

Thunder growled overhead, and far out along the horizon, spiked tendrils of light shot out of the sky and dipped into the water, before vanishing again in the blink of an eye. The rain hadn't come to the tavern yet, but it was in the air- anyone could smell it, could feel its icy fingers on the back of their neck. This storm whispered promises of violence.

A road led away from the tavern- or up to it, depending on which direction one was traveling- and was lined on either side with shops and side streets, where most had their residences. Overall, this place was what Misha would definitely classify as a small sea-cliff village- a drowned dot on the map. The dismal skies didn't help her opinion of it either. Unfortunately, a drowned-dot sea-cliff village was likely Misha's best bet to find some seafaring folk looking for crew, a fact she reminded herself of the entire way up the road to the tavern at the end.

She pushed the door open, and immediately the sounds of music and laughter spilled out like warm ale- they were the sounds of comfort, of warmth, of getting out of the storm for once. They were welcome sounds, and Misha stepped forward into them, letting the door swing shut behind her. For a moment, she stood there just on the inside of the threshold, a pale-looking young woman with blonde hair falling in gentle waves past her shoulders, and a bewildered expression on her face, as if she were in a state of perpetual surprise. She was dressed for travel with a warm cloak and thick boots, and a pack slung over her shoulder. It was immediately clear to Misha that the men here far outnumbered the women, most of which were tending to the customers here. Nevertheless, she pressed further into the establishment and up to the counter, upon which she rested an arm that, judging by the scars that criss-crossed it, had seen better days. Misha seemed unconcerned with its appearance, however, or what it might make others think of her. She was clearly looking for something. Her pack she let drop to the floor between her feet, and it landed there with a soft clatter of the thick, round beads laced around the pack's straps and each other, and the charms and baubles attached to them. In spite of the fact that it sounded as something fragile may have just broken, Misha kept her gaze upward and scanning the room, looking for signs of needy sailors.