No lover of storms is Viola, and each day her impatience with the Island's tempestuous mood doth worsen. This hath happened before: days upon days of ill weather, enough to make her tree-house seem a ship's hold, rocking and swaying and being lashed with unrelenting rain. For something so beloved, something she holds dear for all the love poured into the making of it, to transform into something so dreaded and despaired of is no less dispiriting than the grey gloom of all the world beyond it.
And so when she can stand it no longer, when the little boat moor'd amongst leafy boughs springs a leak, Viola swears and carries on and finally decides to make her way step by sodden step to the Compound, slow and dangerous going though it is. This does little to improve her mood; nor does dwelling 'pon the fact that the last time this had happened (though then it hadn't been nearly as bad as all this), it had been Sandor's company she'd sought when the rain had subsided.
Thus it is that even the sight of Ophelia cannot, for once, shake Viola's sullen, somber countenance. "Agony, and then some," she murmurs, frowning with distaste at the makeshift doorstops she must step over to gain her entry to the Compound. Not two steps behind, long-legged Hunter slips inside, wiry coat dripping with floodwater. Pleased to not be swimming any longer, and even more pleased to see Ophelia, the dog wags his whippy tail and grins his doggish grin.
"Hello good Hunter," she says bending her knees slightly to offer a hand to the dog as she offers a smile to her friend. The weather is not ails her, not entirely, for while it impedes forcing her to stop and rest it will end eventually. She worries about the wreck it will leave in its wake. Nothing that is not used to it can last so long in a world that has gone entirely to water.
"And hello to you. Are both of you fairing well in the dregs of this new season?"
"We are... faring," Viola answers, though 'tis well apparent that her implication is not nearly as neutral as the words themselves. "He fares much better on land than asea, and I cannot argue that, but-- O, madam, stand you back a moment, else he'll drench you," warns she, with time enough to spare the maid that very fate.
Hunter shakes himself vigorously, scattering droplets of water every which way. Once contented, he finds a drier place to rest; Viola cannot help but look on a moment, appearing chagrined, before remembering herself and her manners.
"Thou wilt be staying here until the rain abates?" 'Tis not so much an innocent inquiry as a bid for confirmation, for she finds-- as usual-- that it pleases her to know that Ophelia shall be best off just where she is.
Being drenched is not new to her, not in this weather at least and certain not from before but she concedes taking a step back from the hound as he does that business.
Pushing the strands that are clinging back from her face, she offers a tiny shrug. "Aye, or until I cannot stand to tarry on. One will win out but which I do not know it."
"But whither wilt thou go?" Viola asks. "There's not another place upon this cursed isle that this rain cannot invade."
True, she had dragged her own stubborn feet when it had come to resorting to the Compound's shelter (too many people, and so much noise, and amenities she'd never grow full accustomed to), but the walk over had been miserable enough; she cannot fathom anything being so bad as to inspire another waterlogged outing. And whither would the lady go? Her own hut, likely flooded?
Still, this is Ophelia; and still, these are not good times for venturing out alone. Supressing the urge to sigh, Viola resolves to accompany her, should Ophelia choose to brave the rains. Dry clothes, she suspects, must wait.
Her home does not even occur to her as a place to run to. The seas is hard at work to reclaim it, to make it part of the mess of sand and waves that looked so pretty when not knocking at her door.
"The barn. My horse, she should not care to be cooped up." Nor did Ophelia, for the notion of being here for much longer is working at her nerves fraying them and leaving her scratching for a release.
And so when she can stand it no longer, when the little boat moor'd amongst leafy boughs springs a leak, Viola swears and carries on and finally decides to make her way step by sodden step to the Compound, slow and dangerous going though it is. This does little to improve her mood; nor does dwelling 'pon the fact that the last time this had happened (though then it hadn't been nearly as bad as all this), it had been Sandor's company she'd sought when the rain had subsided.
Thus it is that even the sight of Ophelia cannot, for once, shake Viola's sullen, somber countenance. "Agony, and then some," she murmurs, frowning with distaste at the makeshift doorstops she must step over to gain her entry to the Compound. Not two steps behind, long-legged Hunter slips inside, wiry coat dripping with floodwater. Pleased to not be swimming any longer, and even more pleased to see Ophelia, the dog wags his whippy tail and grins his doggish grin.
Reply
"And hello to you. Are both of you fairing well in the dregs of this new season?"
Reply
Hunter shakes himself vigorously, scattering droplets of water every which way. Once contented, he finds a drier place to rest; Viola cannot help but look on a moment, appearing chagrined, before remembering herself and her manners.
"Thou wilt be staying here until the rain abates?" 'Tis not so much an innocent inquiry as a bid for confirmation, for she finds-- as usual-- that it pleases her to know that Ophelia shall be best off just where she is.
Reply
Pushing the strands that are clinging back from her face, she offers a tiny shrug. "Aye, or until I cannot stand to tarry on. One will win out but which I do not know it."
Reply
True, she had dragged her own stubborn feet when it had come to resorting to the Compound's shelter (too many people, and so much noise, and amenities she'd never grow full accustomed to), but the walk over had been miserable enough; she cannot fathom anything being so bad as to inspire another waterlogged outing. And whither would the lady go? Her own hut, likely flooded?
Still, this is Ophelia; and still, these are not good times for venturing out alone. Supressing the urge to sigh, Viola resolves to accompany her, should Ophelia choose to brave the rains. Dry clothes, she suspects, must wait.
Reply
"The barn. My horse, she should not care to be cooped up." Nor did Ophelia, for the notion of being here for much longer is working at her nerves fraying them and leaving her scratching for a release.
Reply
Leave a comment