It took more thought and effort than an observer might imagine to pick a few fruits.
Filtered light dappled brown skin as thickly gloved hands pushed through thick nests of branches and leaves, ignoring the occasional scrape of wood on flesh. A tuneless hum sounded oddly hollow behind the plain, featureless mask the man wore, its blank face and empty eyes hiding away all form of expression and leaving only fiery red furred ears and tail with which to communicate.
Not that there was anyone around to talk to; no one save the forest, and the masked miqo'te did not think the Shroud appreciated their conversations.
Still, sometimes he liked to tease it, "Don't mind me, friend. Nothing here but us bushes and trees and... ahah!" One hand patted the twisted bush comfortingly while the other pulled back with an oblong, yellow-green object cupped in its palm. The masked angled down to the fruit as his hand turned it about. "Not one worm! A new record." The bush seemed to shiver with pride, or anger, or maybe that was the wind. With the Shroud, it was hard to tell, unless one had a Hearer.
Dirt and sweat-smeared shoulders shrugged in a stretch as the man arched is bare back and let out a great, heaving sigh. Calloused toes curled into the thick litter beneath his feet, and he allowed himself a moment to relish the soothing coolness just below the surface before directing his attention inward. He noted the stiffness in his spine as he moved, and the way the Shroud's air felt heavy in his lungs. A strange, numbing ache persisted in one thigh. Humming to himself once more, the masked miqo'te tucked the fruit into a mostly empty bag slung at one hip and returned his attention to the bush.
Muscled arms once more reached past branch and leaf, but the gestures were more deliberate now, less searching and more simply... feeling. The shrub shuddered and a faint smell reached his nose of something impossibly old and earthy, but the miqo'te did not fear. The mask and the gloves would hide him for this.
When his hands wrapped around another fruit, something pulsed through the leaves, rattling them into a chaotic music. He felt warmth through the gloves and the ancient scent grew stronger, sharper. Then in a careful gesture, he pulled the fruit from its stem and leaned back. In that instant, the shrub fell still but the warmth he'd felt lingered in the palms of his hands before traveling up his arms to settle into spine, lung, leg.
Red ears cocked lopsidedly. "Thank ya kindly," he muttered and dropped this fruit in alongside its partner in his bag. "I'll be moving along now, so don't worry. Now..." Blue eyes peered around at the dense forest through the round, dark holes of his mask.
"Who's next?"
Filtered light dappled brown skin as thickly gloved hands pushed through thick nests of branches and leaves, ignoring the occasional scrape of wood on flesh. A tuneless hum sounded oddly hollow behind the plain, featureless mask the man wore, its blank face and empty eyes hiding away all form of expression and leaving only fiery red furred ears and tail with which to communicate.
Not that there was anyone around to talk to; no one save the forest, and the masked miqo'te did not think the Shroud appreciated their conversations.
Still, sometimes he liked to tease it, "Don't mind me, friend. Nothing here but us bushes and trees and... ahah!" One hand patted the twisted bush comfortingly while the other pulled back with an oblong, yellow-green object cupped in its palm. The masked angled down to the fruit as his hand turned it about. "Not one worm! A new record." The bush seemed to shiver with pride, or anger, or maybe that was the wind. With the Shroud, it was hard to tell, unless one had a Hearer.
Dirt and sweat-smeared shoulders shrugged in a stretch as the man arched is bare back and let out a great, heaving sigh. Calloused toes curled into the thick litter beneath his feet, and he allowed himself a moment to relish the soothing coolness just below the surface before directing his attention inward. He noted the stiffness in his spine as he moved, and the way the Shroud's air felt heavy in his lungs. A strange, numbing ache persisted in one thigh. Humming to himself once more, the masked miqo'te tucked the fruit into a mostly empty bag slung at one hip and returned his attention to the bush.
Muscled arms once more reached past branch and leaf, but the gestures were more deliberate now, less searching and more simply... feeling. The shrub shuddered and a faint smell reached his nose of something impossibly old and earthy, but the miqo'te did not fear. The mask and the gloves would hide him for this.
When his hands wrapped around another fruit, something pulsed through the leaves, rattling them into a chaotic music. He felt warmth through the gloves and the ancient scent grew stronger, sharper. Then in a careful gesture, he pulled the fruit from its stem and leaned back. In that instant, the shrub fell still but the warmth he'd felt lingered in the palms of his hands before traveling up his arms to settle into spine, lung, leg.
Red ears cocked lopsidedly. "Thank ya kindly," he muttered and dropped this fruit in alongside its partner in his bag. "I'll be moving along now, so don't worry. Now..." Blue eyes peered around at the dense forest through the round, dark holes of his mask.
"Who's next?"
![[Image: AntiThalSig.png]](https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/u/179079766/AntiThalSig.png)
"Song dogs barking at the break of dawn, lightning pushes the edges of a thunderstorm; and these streets, quiet as a sleeping army, send their battered dreams to heaven."
Hipparion Tribe (Sagolii)Â - Â Antimony Jhanhi's Wiki
