(no subject)
There is a boy sitting on the steps of the Mansion. He's a young boy, a boy in a threadbare coat, a decent-hearted boy with a peasant's look about him, smooth-faced and innocent, a boy who looks like his mother's favourite. His longish hair curls at the nape of his neck; his skin is ruddy and his face is honest.
On the step beside him an Owl is perched, and this boy is playing with the Owl, stroking its wings with the edge of his finger, affectionate. The Owl seems less amused by this business, but he doesn't try to get away.
Neither of them are in a hurry to be anywhere. The God knows in this form they don't have to worry about the passage of time: to be truthful that's why they're here. Young Kavi Chernevog is tired of being a ghost.
Kavi is not dead...! actually, he is, which is the point. He is hoping to find a magic person who will bring him back to life.
On the step beside him an Owl is perched, and this boy is playing with the Owl, stroking its wings with the edge of his finger, affectionate. The Owl seems less amused by this business, but he doesn't try to get away.
Neither of them are in a hurry to be anywhere. The God knows in this form they don't have to worry about the passage of time: to be truthful that's why they're here. Young Kavi Chernevog is tired of being a ghost.
Kavi is not dead...! actually, he is, which is the point. He is hoping to find a magic person who will bring him back to life.