(no subject)
River slips through the door, draped in her brown duster and frowning slightly.
She doesn't look upset, only very thoughtful -- as if she's listening for something no one else can hear, or looking for something. Her hands are in her pockets, toying absently with the contents. Her path between the tables is meandering; random, perhaps. Or perhaps the pattern is one that only makes sense to her.
She halts abruptly in front of the door, head cocked. One foot pauses, heel lifted and toes pointed against wooden floorboards, and slowly settles down next to the other.
"Unfound," she whispers to no one.
A blink, and she glances sharply across the room. What (or who) she's looking at isn't entirely clear. "Hurry up," she says, soft and fretful. "It's time."
What she draws from her pocket is a ring of pale thin wood, dangling from a purple ribbon tangled around her fingertips. Once, it hung from a rawhide thong. Once, it belonged to someone else.
River holds it up, studying the ring. It sways with the motion; sways, and stills.
"I remember," River whispers to it, and touches the light wood with gentle fingertips. It spins on its ribbon, bumping away from her touch. And then it rocks back, swings forward, rocks back: the motion growing, penduluming, ring blurring into a smear of pale gold against the air, and River watches sober and unafraid.
And then -- like a ball from a slingshot, if it does ya -- it rockets forward, and River stumbles half a step as if pulled by it, and the ring slams into the keyhole of the front door.
And there's a very quiet click.
She doesn't look upset, only very thoughtful -- as if she's listening for something no one else can hear, or looking for something. Her hands are in her pockets, toying absently with the contents. Her path between the tables is meandering; random, perhaps. Or perhaps the pattern is one that only makes sense to her.
She halts abruptly in front of the door, head cocked. One foot pauses, heel lifted and toes pointed against wooden floorboards, and slowly settles down next to the other.
"Unfound," she whispers to no one.
A blink, and she glances sharply across the room. What (or who) she's looking at isn't entirely clear. "Hurry up," she says, soft and fretful. "It's time."
What she draws from her pocket is a ring of pale thin wood, dangling from a purple ribbon tangled around her fingertips. Once, it hung from a rawhide thong. Once, it belonged to someone else.
River holds it up, studying the ring. It sways with the motion; sways, and stills.
"I remember," River whispers to it, and touches the light wood with gentle fingertips. It spins on its ribbon, bumping away from her touch. And then it rocks back, swings forward, rocks back: the motion growing, penduluming, ring blurring into a smear of pale gold against the air, and River watches sober and unafraid.
And then -- like a ball from a slingshot, if it does ya -- it rockets forward, and River stumbles half a step as if pulled by it, and the ring slams into the keyhole of the front door.
And there's a very quiet click.