Messages that will never reach their homes.
Old paper makes a certain kind of noise when it burns. Dry to begin with, any remaining hint of moisture is sucked out of it all at once with a crack, and then there is a fragile, crispy sort of sound as the edge begin to curl in and finally the whole thing is consumed into little bits of ash.
Moril finds the sound so fascinating that he keeps doing it--tiny pieces of paper, pulled out of a wine jug next to him and dropped with careless, frenetic glee into the flames. There's only so much a person can take, he thinks, and he's starting to feel like keeping himself from going mad is just too much effort. Trapped like a wild animal in a cage, on this island, and Quatre gone and Paul gone and Eddara and Sansa gone and glimpses of a Luna he doesn't dare approach because he knows she won't remember him--what is there, but hints of madness and the crackle of burning paper?
The wine jug had appeared this morning. There had not been much wine in it, and now there is none. Moril recognised it the moment he saw it. It looked new, even the smears of blood against one side were scarcely dry. Clennen had been drinking from it only the night before, and now he was dead, and the whole thing had crashed down on Moril as if it had happened just now instead of what was becoming uncountable years. He found messages in the false bottom, where he knew they would be--follow the blackbird, one said, and someone smells of lavender was another.
The messages would never reach the people they were meant for, and Moril is tired of waiting. Eyes dazed and a little manic, he drops another scrap of paper into the fire.
[Open to anyone, and I do mean anyone. Friends, disapprovers, passersby, people who like to burn stuff, whatever. The fire is not big enough to be dangerous, though it is a bit bigger than your average campfire. He's at the cart and parked near the beach. ST/LT/etc fine as always.]
Moril finds the sound so fascinating that he keeps doing it--tiny pieces of paper, pulled out of a wine jug next to him and dropped with careless, frenetic glee into the flames. There's only so much a person can take, he thinks, and he's starting to feel like keeping himself from going mad is just too much effort. Trapped like a wild animal in a cage, on this island, and Quatre gone and Paul gone and Eddara and Sansa gone and glimpses of a Luna he doesn't dare approach because he knows she won't remember him--what is there, but hints of madness and the crackle of burning paper?
The wine jug had appeared this morning. There had not been much wine in it, and now there is none. Moril recognised it the moment he saw it. It looked new, even the smears of blood against one side were scarcely dry. Clennen had been drinking from it only the night before, and now he was dead, and the whole thing had crashed down on Moril as if it had happened just now instead of what was becoming uncountable years. He found messages in the false bottom, where he knew they would be--follow the blackbird, one said, and someone smells of lavender was another.
The messages would never reach the people they were meant for, and Moril is tired of waiting. Eyes dazed and a little manic, he drops another scrap of paper into the fire.
[Open to anyone, and I do mean anyone. Friends, disapprovers, passersby, people who like to burn stuff, whatever. The fire is not big enough to be dangerous, though it is a bit bigger than your average campfire. He's at the cart and parked near the beach. ST/LT/etc fine as always.]