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31_days2006-11-05 11:57 pm
ritalion.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2006-11-05 11:57 pm
[05-11-06] [Original] Tales of a Strange Land
Title: Tales of a Strange Land
Day/Theme: Nov. 5 // white in the moon the long road lies
Series: Original
Pairing: Odinel (story teller), Bazil, Amarillo
Rating: G
Notes: Wow, just barely in time.
Buried deep within the Land of the Everlasting Sun, deep in the imperial city of Solu, lies a little clay shack, old and cracked and dry, the windows covered up with layers and layers of dark drapes.
And living within the little clay shack, covered with its layers of dark drapes, is a sliver of a man, just as old and cracked and dry as the house itself. Covered from head to foot in dark robes, not even his face is visible, only his gnarled, old hands, pale as porcelain, are uncovered.
And this man, this is old, secretive man, is a storyteller. Children from all over the city gather to the little house to hear his stories, stories of far-off, mystical lands. He spins tales of a land far to the east, so far it’s not on any map they’ll ever see. Stories of a land shrouded in an eternal darkness, the Land of the Midnight Sun, where the sun never shines and the sky is forever dark.
Only with little twinkling lights and a dim, white sun to light their way, the people of the Land of the Midnight Sun, he’ll tell them, voice low and creaky, as the children lean in unhidden entrancement, desperately wanting to no more about these foreign creatures, have skin as pale as Suuni flowers and hair as dark as Badán wood, so different from their own varying shades of tan skin and almost colorless hair. The children will gasp in surprised pleasure, minds trying to picture such an odd looking person, still completely entrapped with his stories as he weaves tales of their strange existence.
“Amarillo, Amarillo,” a young boy whispers, grabbing excitedly onto his companion’s skirt, once the old man has paused in his tale telling, “do you think… do think it’s all real?”
The girl next to him rubs her chin thoughtfully, thinking it over for a moment. “Yeah, yeah I do, Bazil. Just look at his hands; they’re so pale and ghastly. I bet he’s one of them.”
Bazil seems to take great consideration into this thought for a moment, glancing back and forth between the story teller’s hands and his own. Suddenly, he smiles broadly and looks up at Amarillo, his eyes gleaming in excitement.
“We should visit the Land of the Midnight Sun someday! It can be just the two of us,” he says triumphantly, obviously pleased.
She only pauses momentarily before speaking, trying hard not to think of whether there will be a someday for them because of Bazil’s sickness, an almost strained smile coming to her face. “Yeah, of course, just the two us.”
Bazil opens his mouth to say more on the matter, but the elderly man starts before him, cutting Bazil off before he can even get a word out. But his thought is soon forgotten as the all the children are once again ensnared in the raconteur’s carefully knit tale, feverishly trying imagine what sort of strange creatures the people of the Land of the Midnight Sun must be.
--
Critique is very much appreciated.
Day/Theme: Nov. 5 // white in the moon the long road lies
Series: Original
Pairing: Odinel (story teller), Bazil, Amarillo
Rating: G
Notes: Wow, just barely in time.
Buried deep within the Land of the Everlasting Sun, deep in the imperial city of Solu, lies a little clay shack, old and cracked and dry, the windows covered up with layers and layers of dark drapes.
And living within the little clay shack, covered with its layers of dark drapes, is a sliver of a man, just as old and cracked and dry as the house itself. Covered from head to foot in dark robes, not even his face is visible, only his gnarled, old hands, pale as porcelain, are uncovered.
And this man, this is old, secretive man, is a storyteller. Children from all over the city gather to the little house to hear his stories, stories of far-off, mystical lands. He spins tales of a land far to the east, so far it’s not on any map they’ll ever see. Stories of a land shrouded in an eternal darkness, the Land of the Midnight Sun, where the sun never shines and the sky is forever dark.
Only with little twinkling lights and a dim, white sun to light their way, the people of the Land of the Midnight Sun, he’ll tell them, voice low and creaky, as the children lean in unhidden entrancement, desperately wanting to no more about these foreign creatures, have skin as pale as Suuni flowers and hair as dark as Badán wood, so different from their own varying shades of tan skin and almost colorless hair. The children will gasp in surprised pleasure, minds trying to picture such an odd looking person, still completely entrapped with his stories as he weaves tales of their strange existence.
“Amarillo, Amarillo,” a young boy whispers, grabbing excitedly onto his companion’s skirt, once the old man has paused in his tale telling, “do you think… do think it’s all real?”
The girl next to him rubs her chin thoughtfully, thinking it over for a moment. “Yeah, yeah I do, Bazil. Just look at his hands; they’re so pale and ghastly. I bet he’s one of them.”
Bazil seems to take great consideration into this thought for a moment, glancing back and forth between the story teller’s hands and his own. Suddenly, he smiles broadly and looks up at Amarillo, his eyes gleaming in excitement.
“We should visit the Land of the Midnight Sun someday! It can be just the two of us,” he says triumphantly, obviously pleased.
She only pauses momentarily before speaking, trying hard not to think of whether there will be a someday for them because of Bazil’s sickness, an almost strained smile coming to her face. “Yeah, of course, just the two us.”
Bazil opens his mouth to say more on the matter, but the elderly man starts before him, cutting Bazil off before he can even get a word out. But his thought is soon forgotten as the all the children are once again ensnared in the raconteur’s carefully knit tale, feverishly trying imagine what sort of strange creatures the people of the Land of the Midnight Sun must be.
--
Critique is very much appreciated.