(no subject)
There sits upon the end of a path a great stone pillar, shaped in the likeness of a young woman who faces toward the shores, to one’s left as one views the setting sun. Her features have an elfin cast to them, and though there is beauty in the casting, the sculptor who made the piece was surely a master, for in her expression and carriage one gains the impression of a certain gracelessness, coupled with a restless ambition. Large feathery wings rise from her back; in pose they are near fully furled, and closer examination reveals that the woman’s outfit has been cleverly designed so as not to impede their function.
When the wind blows in a certain way, the wings seem almost to flutter in the breeze, a most clever bit of artiface. All of this could but be attributed to the work of a true master craftsman. However, come up the path during one of the great autumnal rainstorms that pass through this region, and you may hear soft whispers between the blattering fall of raindrops and the roaring of the winds. These will continue, the tone becoming less composed, more insistant, until inevitably, a bolt of lightning from the skies will strike the pillar, causing it to erupt in a blinding chaotic jumble of mad colours. The whispers will fall silent, and a question will be asked. It will be repeated twice more, then the statue will fall silent once more. Some of those whom have encountered this phenomenon have written down the questions asked; a sampling of those have been included here.
If mother is a grey elf and father is a sea captain, why do I have drake wings?
Do you think that he looked better as a cube or a door?
Pastry, pudding, or pendulums for the party?
So, can we call it the sword of Kas, ‘zron?
When the wind blows in a certain way, the wings seem almost to flutter in the breeze, a most clever bit of artiface. All of this could but be attributed to the work of a true master craftsman. However, come up the path during one of the great autumnal rainstorms that pass through this region, and you may hear soft whispers between the blattering fall of raindrops and the roaring of the winds. These will continue, the tone becoming less composed, more insistant, until inevitably, a bolt of lightning from the skies will strike the pillar, causing it to erupt in a blinding chaotic jumble of mad colours. The whispers will fall silent, and a question will be asked. It will be repeated twice more, then the statue will fall silent once more. Some of those whom have encountered this phenomenon have written down the questions asked; a sampling of those have been included here.
If mother is a grey elf and father is a sea captain, why do I have drake wings?
Do you think that he looked better as a cube or a door?
Pastry, pudding, or pendulums for the party?
So, can we call it the sword of Kas, ‘zron?