(no subject)
Some people are angry.
Some are happy, and some are confused.
Tia Dalma does not care for any of them, or what they think, or what they do with the stretch of salt water than now beckons or bemuses them. Their complaints or happiness make little difference to her, where she spends a long while (a day? perhaps, but many things turn uncertain when she is near) standing in the waves, wandering the shores, her hand clenched about something that hangs from her throat.
When she leaves, the shoreline, the salt air, and the horizon stay behind. Quick, swaying steps bring her to the bar, and there's the door--there always has been a door. She never was Bound.
Not here.
It opens into a glittering cave of flickering orange lights, strange dusty jars dangling from the ceiling, and she steps through, one hand raised to brush away the hanging curtain of beads that shields this room and world from that one.
The door closes behind her with almost no sound at all.
Some are happy, and some are confused.
Tia Dalma does not care for any of them, or what they think, or what they do with the stretch of salt water than now beckons or bemuses them. Their complaints or happiness make little difference to her, where she spends a long while (a day? perhaps, but many things turn uncertain when she is near) standing in the waves, wandering the shores, her hand clenched about something that hangs from her throat.
When she leaves, the shoreline, the salt air, and the horizon stay behind. Quick, swaying steps bring her to the bar, and there's the door--there always has been a door. She never was Bound.
Not here.
It opens into a glittering cave of flickering orange lights, strange dusty jars dangling from the ceiling, and she steps through, one hand raised to brush away the hanging curtain of beads that shields this room and world from that one.
The door closes behind her with almost no sound at all.