A memory dawns - small at first, fragmented and inconsequential; nothing but a tingle on her spine. It grows, rapidly, and Rhoswen cannot stop herself from letting it so, watching inwardly as a white light splinters and bursts until a clouded scene is projected onto the screen of her mind. She hears something, what is it? It was something beautiful - something sinless and blessed, something that erected the hair along her spine as she stood frozen in the water. The sound blossoms, as does the scene unfolding from the cold case of a memory long hidden: it is laughter, their laughter. And they are running, freely - as though they had wings - she watches as they danced and cavorted and poured across Denocte. She couldn't remember their joy so easily now - once it had tasted sweet; now it felt like ash.
"I had."
The sound of Raum's present voice was a hook, grappling and dragging her from the murky depths of her memories. Rhoswen almost jolts, eyes crowded with an emotion she can't seem to define. Sadness, perhaps? Once again she is thrust into a myriad of sensations, slowly losing the anchor she had built to keep her firmly grounded in the dying smoke of detachment. A second sigh, a delicately composed smile almost entirely aimed at herself. It vanished almost immediately, however, when her own bucket slipped from the cloth and washed but a few feet before her silver-skinned companion brought it's journey to a swift halt. She blushes involuntarily, dipping her head so that a singular coiled lock of hair fell across those stormborne eyes, listening to Raum's soft quip. Frustrated, she squares her shoulders, "were you always this annoying?"
And then he moves from her, leaving only a chasmic abyss that ruptures and laments. Rhos is startled by the sudden protesting beat of the scarlet organ in her chest - watching the distance stretch between them, watching and feeling nothing but the repetitive throbbing of her heart and lungs and skin. Without him suddenly she found herself turned from inferno to stone. Snorting quietly, the red girl steels herself, arching her neck as she flounced downstream in the tall Crow's wake. "So go on, tell me in one word what you make of Solterra?" Her voice is gravel and hot coal, but something old was reborn; something from a past life: humour. She couldn't help herself.
@Raum -love-
