[PT] handmade heaven

[Sabine]

Sabine missed the rain.  She missed the way it raised angels from the earth in the hemlock and the yarrow and the clover. It spoke to the Great Mother in soft riddles; keeping her from dying a slow death beneath an unconquerable sun. Sabine was, still, a child, but even children could understand the cyclical nature which flourished above, beneath and within themselves; especially those as kaleidoscopic as she. As twilight faded into obscurity, the yearling settled herself into the nook of a gentle incline, shifting her weight backward as a looping fatigue wound its way around her skull. It had been a long day within a short life, and if Sabine was to tell her truth, she would have prayed for it to end. Alas, the death of this day was not yet nigh.  There was a flare of summer-orange staining the brow of the hill that rose languidly behind Sabine, but it did not catch her eye until the flare had grown legs and eyes and a voice that burned like a cigarette amongst straw. It caught her off-guard, this creature forged from a hundred embers shot down by the sun, and as the stranger's words rolled like a string of dark pearls into the night, Sabi found herself paralysed by surprise. Bolting emotions dashed across her fragile roseate features; an amalgamation of frustration and disappointment. Had her fathers lessons fallen on deaf ears and blind eyes? Had she learned nothing from the hours they had spent rehearsing all the ways in which she might die by the hand of those who read her weakness with ease? Even now, with hundreds of miles between them, she was forsaking the only man kind enough to love her. Nevertheless, it seemed she had been lucky tonight. The woman's voice seemed to hang in the air, daring to endure longer than the laws of this world allowed; oh, how the darkness seemed to blanch from such gilded valour. Sabine studied her silently behind eyes that resembled ancient glaciers, echoing the smile that had been gifted to her by this beautiful siren. She had never seen anything quite like it.  "Salutations, Miss Tonnerre," she paused (shy, aching, unsure) "I am Sabine," a second pause, longer this time, "... just Sabine." Her tongue scraped like sandpaper against her teeth and her cheeks flushed with scarlet embarrassment; she had never been good at this. Moira's awareness of her melancholy only deepened the flood of shame that purged her veins, and desperately she scrambled to recover. "Denocte, you say? You are a long way from home, ma'am."  @Moira

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