Post by Teller on Sept 18, 2016 13:27:59 GMT -4
Rowanis sat in front of Cloud Loft, the inn she looked after, and in which she’d died. The people of the region were used to her being here, even if so precious few of them ever saw her rather than the objects she moved, so most of those coming and going today only smiled when they saw the ceramic dish floating above the bench beneath the front window, as Rowanis’s hands invisibly shelled the peas. Chickens and a few pigeons sat at her airy feet, devouring the stringy skins. A few of the people passing even greeted her.
Most of the people here appreciated having Rowanis. She’d been known to nurse the fire, catch slipping bottles, mind boiling potatoes and clean up spills, and became more useful as the inn became more busy. However she was not kind to all of the patrons, only most of them. Those patrons and employees who offended her tended to wake finding their boots filled with water or all of the stable tools stowed along the barn rafters. The patrons, after being told what they had incurred, generally chose not to return. The employees didn’t tend to stay long either, if Rowanis had taken offense to them.
She never hurt anyone. She just made them slightly miserable and played with their toys like they were toys. Nothing harmful.
A dracolisk woman who regularly passed through for business saw the evidence of Rowanis’s presence and threw her hand up in greeting, calling her name and sending her footman ahead with her baggage, and a stableboy away with her gelding, taking a seat beside Rowanis with a sigh. ”Been a lovely day on the leeward side of the mountain, I must tell you,” she informed her ghostly companion, and Rowanis smiled into her peas. ”Do you often wake to see the sunrises? You truly should. Sometimes you can see the ocean even from these heights, and it’s a magnificent view.”
Rowanis stirred dust at their feet, rustling the crabbed grass, and lifted a handful onto the bench, encouraging the air to shape the words she wanted. Writing being the only way most people could ‘hear’ Rowanis, the dracolisk woman scooted a bit further away to make room. I did not see it this morning, however it looked too foggy for an ocean view today.
”Oh it was,” she assured her. ”But it was pretty nonetheless. You should travel more, Lady Rowanis. This is a beautiful country, and you’ve more freedom than most to experience it.”
The stableboy returned at a trot, shouting an inquiry, and the dracolisk woman rose, excusing herself, and went to see what had the boy so confused.
Rowanis sighed, and continued shelling peas, mindful of her pink gown even eighty years dead, when worldly things like dirt and water could no longer touch her unless she expected them to, and then whose stains fell away the moment she forgot.
Most of the people here appreciated having Rowanis. She’d been known to nurse the fire, catch slipping bottles, mind boiling potatoes and clean up spills, and became more useful as the inn became more busy. However she was not kind to all of the patrons, only most of them. Those patrons and employees who offended her tended to wake finding their boots filled with water or all of the stable tools stowed along the barn rafters. The patrons, after being told what they had incurred, generally chose not to return. The employees didn’t tend to stay long either, if Rowanis had taken offense to them.
She never hurt anyone. She just made them slightly miserable and played with their toys like they were toys. Nothing harmful.
A dracolisk woman who regularly passed through for business saw the evidence of Rowanis’s presence and threw her hand up in greeting, calling her name and sending her footman ahead with her baggage, and a stableboy away with her gelding, taking a seat beside Rowanis with a sigh. ”Been a lovely day on the leeward side of the mountain, I must tell you,” she informed her ghostly companion, and Rowanis smiled into her peas. ”Do you often wake to see the sunrises? You truly should. Sometimes you can see the ocean even from these heights, and it’s a magnificent view.”
Rowanis stirred dust at their feet, rustling the crabbed grass, and lifted a handful onto the bench, encouraging the air to shape the words she wanted. Writing being the only way most people could ‘hear’ Rowanis, the dracolisk woman scooted a bit further away to make room. I did not see it this morning, however it looked too foggy for an ocean view today.
”Oh it was,” she assured her. ”But it was pretty nonetheless. You should travel more, Lady Rowanis. This is a beautiful country, and you’ve more freedom than most to experience it.”
The stableboy returned at a trot, shouting an inquiry, and the dracolisk woman rose, excusing herself, and went to see what had the boy so confused.
Rowanis sighed, and continued shelling peas, mindful of her pink gown even eighty years dead, when worldly things like dirt and water could no longer touch her unless she expected them to, and then whose stains fell away the moment she forgot.