☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"the absent woman / the transparent woman / the absinthe woman / the woman absorbed, the woman under tyranny / the contemporary woman / the mocking woman / the artist dreaming inside her house."
"the absent woman / the transparent woman / the absinthe woman / the woman absorbed, the woman under tyranny / the contemporary woman / the mocking woman / the artist dreaming inside her house."
The ginger does not come out of the ground easily.
It is always a pain to pull roots out of the ground without tools; I should have brought something with me, but what I’m looking for in the swamp isn’t technically ginger. (That is merely what some might call a “happy coincidence,” and what I might call pragmatism.) Still, I finally manage to tug the milk-white roots free of the muddy soil, and I hold them suspended in mid-air alongside me; I can taste them in my mouth, even smell them. I’ve never much liked the taste of ginger, but it is too functional (and, perhaps, valuable) as an herb to ignore.
At first, when I hear a disturbance among the undergrowth, I expect that it is Ishak. I correct that almost immediately – if it were Ishak, I would never hear him until he wanted to be heard, and I cannot imagine that he would want to be heard traipsing through the swamp. No, half of the time I don’t know that Ishak is at my side until he opens his mouth, half-smirking, and throws me some witty remark. I’ve long passed the point of being startled when he sneaks up on me.
The woman who appears from the swamp is distinctly not Ishak. Her coat is a bright, blueish green. I might have batted an eyelash at the color, but it is nothing unusual at the color; what is more surprising to me is the thick texture of it. (I don’t leave the desert often enough to see many winter coats.) We are almost identical in height, though she is stockier – and probably stronger – than I am in build, and in all ways more striking, from the sharp blue of her eyes to the foam white-coils of her mane and tail, which fall behind her in enviously thick waves. I raise my head to examine her, my stare unblinking, and I do not move an inch at her question.
(I have forgotten my courtesies again.)
“It’s wild ginger,” I say, simply, and extend one of the roots to her – an offer, as it were, to examine it, or perhaps to take it. “It helps with digestion, and nausea, and it can be used to treat some common viruses, like colds.” I pause, considering her, and tilt my head. “Are you out looking for herbs, too?” If she is, two sets of eyes are better than one; we can split what we find at the end of our search.
(I am not entirely immune to working well with others, regardless of what Ishak says.)
@Saphira || <3 || anne waldman, "fast talking woman"
It is always a pain to pull roots out of the ground without tools; I should have brought something with me, but what I’m looking for in the swamp isn’t technically ginger. (That is merely what some might call a “happy coincidence,” and what I might call pragmatism.) Still, I finally manage to tug the milk-white roots free of the muddy soil, and I hold them suspended in mid-air alongside me; I can taste them in my mouth, even smell them. I’ve never much liked the taste of ginger, but it is too functional (and, perhaps, valuable) as an herb to ignore.
At first, when I hear a disturbance among the undergrowth, I expect that it is Ishak. I correct that almost immediately – if it were Ishak, I would never hear him until he wanted to be heard, and I cannot imagine that he would want to be heard traipsing through the swamp. No, half of the time I don’t know that Ishak is at my side until he opens his mouth, half-smirking, and throws me some witty remark. I’ve long passed the point of being startled when he sneaks up on me.
The woman who appears from the swamp is distinctly not Ishak. Her coat is a bright, blueish green. I might have batted an eyelash at the color, but it is nothing unusual at the color; what is more surprising to me is the thick texture of it. (I don’t leave the desert often enough to see many winter coats.) We are almost identical in height, though she is stockier – and probably stronger – than I am in build, and in all ways more striking, from the sharp blue of her eyes to the foam white-coils of her mane and tail, which fall behind her in enviously thick waves. I raise my head to examine her, my stare unblinking, and I do not move an inch at her question.
(I have forgotten my courtesies again.)
“It’s wild ginger,” I say, simply, and extend one of the roots to her – an offer, as it were, to examine it, or perhaps to take it. “It helps with digestion, and nausea, and it can be used to treat some common viruses, like colds.” I pause, considering her, and tilt my head. “Are you out looking for herbs, too?” If she is, two sets of eyes are better than one; we can split what we find at the end of our search.
(I am not entirely immune to working well with others, regardless of what Ishak says.)
@Saphira || <3 || anne waldman, "fast talking woman"
HE FEEDS ME RED MEAT / HE WATCHES THE BLOOD POOL IN MY MOUTHlaughs at my red teeth❂please tag Ruth! contact is encouraged, short of violence
