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Posted: Sep 1 2015, 05:13 PM
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Joined: 6-December 11
How bleak the days, how long the nights.
Isara sleeps, and dreams of colors not seen in years; of green things growing and a pale blue sky above; of a yellow less sickly radiating from the fizzling sun in the dust-hazed sky.
It has been generations since these things were seen in person, but the stories have passed down, the trinkets that retain their range of colors tucked away where the sun won't blanken them. Isara herself is the muddy dark of all the People left, those who walk or crawl, but chiefly think—who can count their own limbs, who can wield the weapons shaped over makeshift kilns.
Ashtown, they call the settlement. Hovels built up out of scrap, broken bricks, forgotten pieces of a forgotten world. The tribe collects around the firepit in the center, though the wood has long been burned, and hides in their subterranean lairs dug with tooth and nail. And Isara—she is the Silent One, the locked away, the voiceless girl—
They told her, as they tell the others, that a time will come when she will speak.
That she will know.
Isara, young woman draped in her makeshift gowns passed down along the years, can only suppose.
She stands at the firepit today, her eyes big and dark—alien, as all the People are now, twisted so that no two have the same bodies. Isara is the closest to their roots, two-legged and two-armed, with a loping unsteady gait and half a hand at the end of each arm.
Three-eyed, so she might See.
Others gather round to touch her bruise-dark skin, muttering in their cobbled tongues, and they look at her with hope.
"There is a place for us yet."
And faints away again into the color of dreams.