The singer was dreaming again.
There was really nothing particularly strange or odd about the scene at all. The sun was shining, which on the island was really an everyday sort of occurence. Brightly-hued birds were clamouring n the trees, swooping from one to another in quick flashes of garish colour. The ocean was at its brightest, the waves lapping playfully against the sand beneath a froth of white foam.
There was a cart, painted green and gold, moving along the beach just within the shade of the trees. The paint had clearly been as bright as the birds, at one point, but had faded since, and scratches had appeared where the letters spelling out HESTEFAN THE SINGER had begun to peel from the wood. The cart was pulled by a very old dapple-grey horse who plodded along slowly as if there were really other things he thought he might rather be doing just then, like eating grass or standing in the sun, his long tail flicking flies from his slightly sway-backed rump.
There was a boy driving the cart--well, a young man by this point, in jeans and a t-shirt with bright ginger hair and a dreamy, faraway sort of look that suggested he wasn't actually paying the least bit of attention to where he was going--which, as by now he'd been nearly all around the island, might well have been the case. He was gazing off somewhere in the distance and singing softly to himself.
The horse, quite suddenly, stopped--a reasonable thing for a horse to do when there is someone in the way of where they are trying to walk. The boy looked down in surprise, as if just startled out of his song and whatever thoughts he'd been thinking.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Did we nearly bump into you?"
[Would love old friends of course, but also a good time to meet him. I' m a bit STish as it's induction week, so ST/LT/whatever all fine. :)]
There was a cart, painted green and gold, moving along the beach just within the shade of the trees. The paint had clearly been as bright as the birds, at one point, but had faded since, and scratches had appeared where the letters spelling out HESTEFAN THE SINGER had begun to peel from the wood. The cart was pulled by a very old dapple-grey horse who plodded along slowly as if there were really other things he thought he might rather be doing just then, like eating grass or standing in the sun, his long tail flicking flies from his slightly sway-backed rump.
There was a boy driving the cart--well, a young man by this point, in jeans and a t-shirt with bright ginger hair and a dreamy, faraway sort of look that suggested he wasn't actually paying the least bit of attention to where he was going--which, as by now he'd been nearly all around the island, might well have been the case. He was gazing off somewhere in the distance and singing softly to himself.
The horse, quite suddenly, stopped--a reasonable thing for a horse to do when there is someone in the way of where they are trying to walk. The boy looked down in surprise, as if just startled out of his song and whatever thoughts he'd been thinking.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Did we nearly bump into you?"
[Would love old friends of course, but also a good time to meet him. I' m a bit STish as it's induction week, so ST/LT/whatever all fine. :)]