☼ RUTH OF HOUSE IESHAN ☼רות
"AND SHE IS DYING PIECE-MEAL / of a sort of emotional anemia. / And round about there is a rabble / of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. / They shall inherit the earth."
"AND SHE IS DYING PIECE-MEAL / of a sort of emotional anemia. / And round about there is a rabble / of the filthy, sturdy, unkillable infants of the very poor. / They shall inherit the earth."
The air smells like woodsmoke and herbs, and the night sky is painted with dancing embers.
The festivities are brilliant, and I have the unpleasant feeling that I will be treating burns tonight. It is the perfect storm – ritual and fire combined. I linger in the shadows, not quite attracted by anything in the festival; I pass oomancers and painters and fire-dancers with scarcely a glance, my dull yellow eyes catching in the light of the bonfires even as I am in the dark. My family is profoundly religious, though I am not sure that most of my siblings – or any of them, really, save perhaps Adonai (and, with his current condition, even that is something to call into question; but some would say that faith is not faith if it is never tested) – believe what they preach. I certainly don’t, but, then, I don’t preach, either. Save for my seasonal pilgrimages to Veneror, which are a matter of appearance and escape more than anything, I do not partake in most any of the family rituals.
I am not religious, and I am not superstitious, either. (I might have been, once, but only in the purely self-interested way that I play at being most things; loving, kind, moral, responsible.) I have concluded that my mind is not primed to understand either, like it is not primed to understand most things of that ilk; I regard the festival like a case study, watch the people who go about their business like I might watch lab mice in a cage. I catch the smiling face of a young girl, or a man whispering into the ear of a woman, his lips twisted up into a smirk, and I see light-footed creatures spring through the colorful smoke, and I don’t understand any of it at all.
I don’t know why they enjoy it.
(I feel like I am standing in a box made out of glass.)
If I didn’t have business in Delumine, I wouldn’t be here. Seeing as I do, here I am. Attending the festival had been Ishak’s suggestion, however; and he is at my side, as usual, more like a shadow than the one beneath me. I drift through the crowds, well aware that he is following even without looking back over my shoulder at him, and I don’t stop my drifting until we stand near the outskirts of the crowd, close to some of the colorful paints and jewels strewn about the edges of the treeline.
I look at him, my gaze half-thoughtful, and I say, in my most inscrutable tone, “Ishak. If you were to paint me – what would you paint?”
It isn’t a request. (Probably.) It’s not quite a question, either.
They say that our mother carved us from stone, painted all of our features just so. If that is the case – all my features seem haphazard where my siblings are brilliantly precise. If that is the case – I wonder if she ever took a brush to me at all.
@Ishak || <3 || "the garden," ezra pound
The festivities are brilliant, and I have the unpleasant feeling that I will be treating burns tonight. It is the perfect storm – ritual and fire combined. I linger in the shadows, not quite attracted by anything in the festival; I pass oomancers and painters and fire-dancers with scarcely a glance, my dull yellow eyes catching in the light of the bonfires even as I am in the dark. My family is profoundly religious, though I am not sure that most of my siblings – or any of them, really, save perhaps Adonai (and, with his current condition, even that is something to call into question; but some would say that faith is not faith if it is never tested) – believe what they preach. I certainly don’t, but, then, I don’t preach, either. Save for my seasonal pilgrimages to Veneror, which are a matter of appearance and escape more than anything, I do not partake in most any of the family rituals.
I am not religious, and I am not superstitious, either. (I might have been, once, but only in the purely self-interested way that I play at being most things; loving, kind, moral, responsible.) I have concluded that my mind is not primed to understand either, like it is not primed to understand most things of that ilk; I regard the festival like a case study, watch the people who go about their business like I might watch lab mice in a cage. I catch the smiling face of a young girl, or a man whispering into the ear of a woman, his lips twisted up into a smirk, and I see light-footed creatures spring through the colorful smoke, and I don’t understand any of it at all.
I don’t know why they enjoy it.
(I feel like I am standing in a box made out of glass.)
If I didn’t have business in Delumine, I wouldn’t be here. Seeing as I do, here I am. Attending the festival had been Ishak’s suggestion, however; and he is at my side, as usual, more like a shadow than the one beneath me. I drift through the crowds, well aware that he is following even without looking back over my shoulder at him, and I don’t stop my drifting until we stand near the outskirts of the crowd, close to some of the colorful paints and jewels strewn about the edges of the treeline.
I look at him, my gaze half-thoughtful, and I say, in my most inscrutable tone, “Ishak. If you were to paint me – what would you paint?”
It isn’t a request. (Probably.) It’s not quite a question, either.
They say that our mother carved us from stone, painted all of our features just so. If that is the case – all my features seem haphazard where my siblings are brilliantly precise. If that is the case – I wonder if she ever took a brush to me at all.
@
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
