No one mourns the wicked.

[syl_thorn]

[Early evening, Wednesday, August 13th, day 444]
[The woods outside town]Woke up'is mornin' when the sky wuz th'deep blue'a th'sea bottom, m'breath stranglin'n m'throat, and a pain'n m'head't threatened t'push m'eyes from'eir sockets. I sat up, chokin' 'n clawin't m'throat, wond'rin' dully if'n m'head wuz gonna burst 'fore I strangled, an'en't wuz

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[glass_beddau]

I will bloody well have my own time and measure and space of breathing, though it's grown rare; so when I set hands to it then for my peace it suits me to make bloody sure there’s no-one laying claim to me, nor to have mind of me to do so.

I did this more often, afore. Now need plan and plead for the time of it, and that truth rubs raw as grit on sweat-worn skin. So draw feathers and stone around myself, and there’s a quiet in the air around me, cloak of mist and dreams, and it soothes.

The cool of wet riverstone, and a stillness.

Take myself out and further, and come the moments I mind where I’m going. Recall another time I did this, mind set in myself and body wrapped in the cochl o caddug and that fool rabbit blind to me ‘til I clear and away stepped on it... Grin at the memory, and take myself over moss and through clearing, listening to the day around me, and nothing gone quiet for my being there, nothing stilled at sound or sight of someone out walking; no place I need be and no-one I need answer to, and I feel the misery

[syl_thorn]

Birds. Keep findin' th'damned thin's. I saw'em scattered 'round th'Carn'val lot, an'I thought I heard someone say we'd lost a few layin' hens, but I di'n't really get th'sense ovvit 'til I wuz out'ere. I see sparrows, blackbirds, crows, robins, even a hawk. Gather 'nough feathers'n talons t'last me a lifetime, but th'whole thin' leaves me witta bad taste'n m'mouth. Somethin' happened 'is morning, an'I still don't think 't wuz nothin' good. T'morrow I go t'Nanshe, see what she thinks.

As'm passin' near t'th'river, I hear some rustlin'. Takes me a minute t'see'er passin' through th'trees, dressed'n workin' browns'n greys. 'er belly's gone flat, an'er's a satchel at'er side. "Glass." I call, raisin' m'hand inna wave. "How ya been?"

[glass_beddau]

Eyeing a particular twist and flare of bramble and take the cloak off and turn it and wrap it up in itself. It's sturdier than I'd right to expect, but the idea of catching it bothers me nonetheless; I wonder if it'd bleed, more'n all else.

"Glass," as I come through the tangle and for a moment thinking of pulling back into feather and mist and gone, but time of quiet's settled me some, and the voice isn't a misery.

"Well enough," call back, thread through and down a lace of trees towards Syl. "You and yours?"

[syl_thorn]

Ferra minute I think she's gonna draw back, but she turns t'me'n calls back, "Well enough. You and yours?"

"Not too bad." Gesture t'wards'er belly. "All come out well, I hope?" Likely so, with Nu watchin' over'er. Ain't known Nu t'lose many babies.

Start walkin' t'wards'er an' stop onna dead woodpecker. "Fuckin' hell." I says, an' sigh. "Y'feel't? 'is mornin'?" Glass ain't got th'sense't Tess has, but she's got a li'l bit ovvan eye t'er. Curious t'see if'n she felt anythin'.

[glass_beddau]

Nod to matter of health of me and mine. "Y'feel't? 'is mornin'?" she say, stepping 'round another dead bird. Imagine some of it was the length of holding a breath, but...

Shake my head. "Woke up direct after, near's I can tell," I say dry. The screaming... Well enough she got her breath back, can't blame her for being upset over the matter. Some shock to find quite how quick you can get to your feet woken that way, or how fast your heart goes. "Didn't catch word of it being matter for others 'til I actually spoke to another. What was it?"

[syl_thorn]

She shakes'er head, but she felt't, sure's stone. "Woke up direct after, near's I can tell. Didn't catch word of it being matter for others 'til I actually spoke to another. What was it?"

"Fucked if I know," I snort, pickin' th'carcass up. "Y'need feathers? I got 'nough t'stuff a lifetime's pillows." Sigh'n toss th'bird aside. "I dunno what't wuz, I'm jes' sure't ain't good. But'en, what innis town is?" Gotta laugh't some point. "I really ain't sure what happened'is mornin', Plannin' t'go'n talk 'bout't wit' folks later. Meantime, dunno't'ere's much t'do 'bout't 'scept gather's much feathers'n claws's we can."

[glass_beddau]

"Fucked if I know," she says, picking up the woodpecker. "Y'need feathers? I got 'nough t'stuff a lifetime's pillows."

"Thinking I'm set," I say, and smiling faint to be imagining what Dorian'd threaten to make of it if he saw aught other than chicken feathers. Some great twist of things, no doubt.

"I dunno what't wuz, I'm jes' sure't ain't good. But'en, what innis town is?" and crack a grin. "I really ain't sure what happened'is mornin', Plannin' t'go'n talk 'bout't wit' folks later. Meantime, dunno't'ere's much t'do 'bout't 'scept gather's much feathers'n claws's we can."

"S'pose," true enough. "You need a hand at claws, or you set for those as well?"