[Lost] A teaser for Shiva
You tread the ruined stones of the old manor, stepping lightly over brambles, roots, and shattered stone. As you walk, you run your hand down the wall, looking at this derelict building, once the foundation of such a beautiful house, and cold seeps into your heart, like you are treading away from the light and life of spring, into the deep cold and peace of winter.
Its not painful, or even sad, exactly, just, still, remote, and cold, like the world sleep under a blanket. Then you notice it….. the stones are cold, and as you walk, the feeling under your hand becomes ice, surprising you, as you look around. The walls are cold, and the crunch under your feet sounds different, with each step, till you stand on a crunchy layer of snow, and the walls are frosty and thin.
Rounding a corner, you enter a room, and before you are clear windows.
Sitting in the middle of the room, is a figure who at first seems to blend into the coldness of the room and its ice and snow. Long silver hair hides its face, a long grey robe falls shapelessly from the shoulders. She sits, watching the windows, her slender hands, blue nails, drum softly through the white fur of her mantle as she watches.
Valentine walks in. “And who might you be?”
“Shiva.” The voice is low, a cool soothing contaltro that would have been at home on a man or a woman. She turns, cool, calculating eyes looking over the top of her glasses at you.
Its not painful, or even sad, exactly, just, still, remote, and cold, like the world sleep under a blanket. Then you notice it….. the stones are cold, and as you walk, the feeling under your hand becomes ice, surprising you, as you look around. The walls are cold, and the crunch under your feet sounds different, with each step, till you stand on a crunchy layer of snow, and the walls are frosty and thin.
Rounding a corner, you enter a room, and before you are clear windows.
Sitting in the middle of the room, is a figure who at first seems to blend into the coldness of the room and its ice and snow. Long silver hair hides its face, a long grey robe falls shapelessly from the shoulders. She sits, watching the windows, her slender hands, blue nails, drum softly through the white fur of her mantle as she watches.
Valentine walks in. “And who might you be?”
“Shiva.” The voice is low, a cool soothing contaltro that would have been at home on a man or a woman. She turns, cool, calculating eyes looking over the top of her glasses at you.