(no subject)
Mother has been dying to cause mischief the moment the fences went down and she let herself into the barracks. Instead, she took to following that horrid little man who had so diverted the attentions of her son. She had been taking it upon herself to track him, learn where he goes, learn what matters to him. He spends much time with her son - to her deepest dismay - and an inordinate amount of time with some light-haired woman. This troubled her the most. What is this man doing behind her son's back?
It was with some interest that she had watched this man scurry to and fro when the little yellow huts went dark in the midst of the great storm. She was not troubled by such weather. The Island was a fickle creature, prone to fits of temper when it saw fit, and she had, long ago, learned to simply wait them out. The Island's tantrums were short-lived, more often than not.
But this man seemed to place a great deal of importance in his actions, running around in the rain like he was insane. He disappeared into various structures, carried with him strange devices. She would follow as far as she could without being seen. One day he emerged from one of these places looking infinitely proud of himself. Mother counted the various ways she wanted to wipe that smug look of his face when she noticed that the little huts had their light back.
Ah. Perhaps he had been working to fix the problem of the missing light.
A smile had crept over her face then, and she disappeared into shadows to plot.
And now, a few days later, after the rain had stopped and the nervous energy in the little village had dulled to a quiet hum of activity, Mother has taken her chance. She has crept into one of these strange, echoing chambers, an axe in her hand, following the path the man took. She stands almost in awe of the sight before her when she reaches a point where she can walk no further. Little lights twinkle at her, and long, black, serpentine-looking vines are tangled and scattered in various locations.
She considers this foreign equipment for but a moment before raising the axe and swinging it downward. There is a terrible screeching noise, a sound popping and sizzling, and a horrid burning smell. She soldiers on, bringing the axe down over and over again until all the tiny lights are out. She admires her handiwork awhile, before returning to the sweet-smelling air of the surface.
She strides boldly through the now-darkened village, swinging her axe to her shoulder almost merrily. She shows no fear at the idea of being caught.
These people need to know they are unwelcome, and she is more than happy to be the one to pass along that knowledge.
It was with some interest that she had watched this man scurry to and fro when the little yellow huts went dark in the midst of the great storm. She was not troubled by such weather. The Island was a fickle creature, prone to fits of temper when it saw fit, and she had, long ago, learned to simply wait them out. The Island's tantrums were short-lived, more often than not.
But this man seemed to place a great deal of importance in his actions, running around in the rain like he was insane. He disappeared into various structures, carried with him strange devices. She would follow as far as she could without being seen. One day he emerged from one of these places looking infinitely proud of himself. Mother counted the various ways she wanted to wipe that smug look of his face when she noticed that the little huts had their light back.
Ah. Perhaps he had been working to fix the problem of the missing light.
A smile had crept over her face then, and she disappeared into shadows to plot.
And now, a few days later, after the rain had stopped and the nervous energy in the little village had dulled to a quiet hum of activity, Mother has taken her chance. She has crept into one of these strange, echoing chambers, an axe in her hand, following the path the man took. She stands almost in awe of the sight before her when she reaches a point where she can walk no further. Little lights twinkle at her, and long, black, serpentine-looking vines are tangled and scattered in various locations.
She considers this foreign equipment for but a moment before raising the axe and swinging it downward. There is a terrible screeching noise, a sound popping and sizzling, and a horrid burning smell. She soldiers on, bringing the axe down over and over again until all the tiny lights are out. She admires her handiwork awhile, before returning to the sweet-smelling air of the surface.
She strides boldly through the now-darkened village, swinging her axe to her shoulder almost merrily. She shows no fear at the idea of being caught.
These people need to know they are unwelcome, and she is more than happy to be the one to pass along that knowledge.