Back from the grave again...
A girl enters. She is young, no older then eighteen, almost certainly closer to sixteen, fourteen, terribly young.
Her hair is tangled, wild, strewn with plants, and her dress, which was fine once, is stained with mud, with the movements of water, with grasses and bushes. Trees and thorns have torn her skin and her clothes and she is barefoot, despite the cold, despite the snow.
She stands on the porch, the wind blowing the snow across her exposed skin, reddening it, burning it, and she sings.
“Oh, Western Wind, when will thou blow, the small rain down can rain - ” She drops the song, raising a hand to her hair, covering her left ear. “Oh Western rain - blow yes, and rain my river rain, where the banks flow - ”
Singing again, “Christ if my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!” She slips back to speaking. “Bed, river’s bed, flower bed and the willow grows - oh! Oh, there’s a willow, lady, ” which turns to a song, “Oh bury me where the willow grows, on the wide banks singing…”
Her hands drop, her chin lifts and firms, she takes a step, two, spins, her arms out and her feet steady - though her physicality may be as random as her speech, it’s certainly self assured - and stops. Another step.
She says to the door, very earnestly, “Oh, gentles, gentles, blessed are those who entertain angels. Pray you, gentles, pray.”
OOC: Ophelia! Re-typisted, re-journaled, re-introed. Still crazy as a loon and very dead.
Her hair is tangled, wild, strewn with plants, and her dress, which was fine once, is stained with mud, with the movements of water, with grasses and bushes. Trees and thorns have torn her skin and her clothes and she is barefoot, despite the cold, despite the snow.
She stands on the porch, the wind blowing the snow across her exposed skin, reddening it, burning it, and she sings.
“Oh, Western Wind, when will thou blow, the small rain down can rain - ” She drops the song, raising a hand to her hair, covering her left ear. “Oh Western rain - blow yes, and rain my river rain, where the banks flow - ”
Singing again, “Christ if my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!” She slips back to speaking. “Bed, river’s bed, flower bed and the willow grows - oh! Oh, there’s a willow, lady, ” which turns to a song, “Oh bury me where the willow grows, on the wide banks singing…”
Her hands drop, her chin lifts and firms, she takes a step, two, spins, her arms out and her feet steady - though her physicality may be as random as her speech, it’s certainly self assured - and stops. Another step.
She says to the door, very earnestly, “Oh, gentles, gentles, blessed are those who entertain angels. Pray you, gentles, pray.”
OOC: Ophelia! Re-typisted, re-journaled, re-introed. Still crazy as a loon and very dead.