Post by Breanna Keelan on Feb 1, 2010 0:19:27 GMT -6
Part I
Breanna: "Will you not come in to the shop, husband? You have been on this step for hour after hour. You are no more going to perfect ice crystals for show than God is going to tell you hi smiddle name. Come inside! You will catch cold." Breanna scolded, the love was not absent from the words, but instruction was paramount. Sweet heavens above! Was there not a shop to set up, things to clean, a home to furnish? Was there not ample things that would pull him away from his blue-ember hobby? The lane began to amble to a moment's pause. Stalls pulled down curtain to conceal the table of business whilst inside they discussed the next course of action. The jingle of coin?Ah, this too was lost. (d)
Conlaed: For all the world, it seemed that for but a few minutes that Conlaed had not heard his wife's words. With the sleeve of his tunic, he wiped the last small bit of liquid - remants of the mundane chemical they used to breathe fire on stage - from his chin. His eyes were fixed quietly on the point where the last of his ice crystal fire had faded into smoke. He had been close enough to taste the success that time. There was a slight shake of his head, a sigh. It was frustrating, when he was working a project and could not get it come together. But Breanna was correct... he was starting to get cold. He scowled softly at that, shaking his head. Then he turned, and headed into the shop. He smiled, reaching out to wrap his arm around her waist, "I am cold." He said, grinning, "Make me warm?" (D)
Breanna: The liquid dripped on to the clean stairs into a pool of oil-like sheen. Bits of powder stained the door as if it were a shower of stardust instead of a little stage essence. Magick, wonder; the art of fire was as much a science as it was theater. The alchemist in her husband never stopped mixing pieces of salt peter with this vial or that concoction to create some effect that would either dazzle the masses, or make a wife angered at what remained for her to clean up. Conlaed, Oh Prince of Fire Eaters! You sully your new steps, your door! Breanna forgave him. She was no better if a whimsy nagged in the mind like a mystery to be solved. Beautiful soft hands were oft covered in oil, dirt, and black dust from bending materials to her desire in the crafting of lanterns. Fabric pieces lay littered, the corpses of her costume ideas. "Dah, I warm you," she purred to him, pulling him to but her side made it seem as if high summer had come. "I warm you" (d)
Conlaed: Conlaed nuzzled her neck softly, smiling as he held her to him. With his two burly arms wrapped about her waist, there was a suitable ease to guiding her back toward the fire. At least let it be said, that it had been the *back* door and steps that had been sullied by the alchemical arts. Their front porch was as prisninte as the snow that had fallen. There was a soft brush of his lips against her cheek, a smile. "You ever think that we shall come this far? Have a shop of our own, dazzel with our shows?" He could not help bt smile softly, nodding his head. "I never think we come this far...... That I have so much." (D)
Breanna: "You have as much as your hands can make and more because you deserve them. No, vest;acha, I never thought that this would be ours. If our family could but see this, they would have fallen to shock. Think you in County Clare they faint?" Oh how her mother's kin would have bawked at any semblance of the wild horse being bridled by a bit of 'settling' for this sort of life! Conlaed knew, just as she, what the truth was. Oh she remembered his writing in great books, his dreams. A stall to sell a few hand written works for none would print them after meeting his work. Some were kinder, only to revoke promises of larger stipend. The road was long, and weary. The road had curved through Europe to cut right down to the likes of this place where they had enough fortune for two such places! She chuckled. "Ah, we are fortunate. The shop was meant for us. Brigid told us so." (d)
Conlaed: There was a soft smile and touch of laughter, "Dah, dah...... For you to settle so? They gasp and click their tongues at me." He said the last with mocking fear. T'was the most dreadful of punishments -- the wise women clicking their tongues. The road had been long and weary, winding from Ireland, through the Middle East, before at last snaking back to the land of the Celts. That they should have a home that did not move -- neyt, two of them? There was a smile, before he murmured, "We should have a good vardo too......so they not click their tongue so much." He snuggled with her, gently sitting with her down on the couch. In front of the warm fire. (D)
Breanna:"They would say it will not last. She will tire, or he will not be able to hold her. They would say the world is too vast for the uncontented. They may say as they like." The road indeed was long, carrying them many places, through many people. Each adventure defined them in a special way. Some could not see special. Some did not understand unique, or brilliant. Where others saw cursed people they saw themselves as highly blessed! "Are you hungry?" She asked him, making sure to take down her own ornamental hoop work. Ever busy, ever the same. She would scold him where once inside he might of her, for it was evident she was working on hoops to spin on her arms for show, when she ought be sitting (d)
Conlaed: There was a gentle smile, as he saw that. He refrained from commenting on the hoops, knowing that like his own hands -- hers were never quiet. The one teaching of the great Catholic church that the believed was 'idle hands are the devil's workshop'. And their hands were ever busy, whether it was through his writing or her making of jewlery and lanterns for their shop. "I am saited," he said, "For now." He smiled. He sat with her quietly. "I cannot await the arrival of our little one...." (D)
Breanna: "Nor I...nor I..but for now tis still the days of us. What shall we do for our little one? We have yet to talk on the sort of craddle we should have, to go with all our other things." As the back door was shut, the front door was alive. Knock, knock! The bell wouldn't sound for the fixture was locked given the hour that it was. "Hmm, wonder who that is." This sort of thing was usual in Luib, where they rented rooms, but she fathomed the city folk preferred decent hours that while one appreciated a gypsy didn't keep. Kissing Conlaed's hands, she bid him to wash for supper while she went to see whom might be upon those clean virgin steps. On it was a man of medium height. There was a sheen to his black hair, a glint in his eye. "I'm sorry, I hear that there are now two whom not only do art, but make it. I was seeking a necklace made for my wife, with a charm out of an iron that was found." The man was not ill-intentioned, but already the substance in his bag passed to her for inspection revealed one thing did not pass inspection. "Sir, tis late, but I tell you now. I will work in most anything, but my hands can not touch the iron from bogs. Be it the ore or the bog itself, it harms me." It was a strange malady, one that he had not heard of for he was not among those of the row, or luib, that cared. (d)
Conlaed: There was a furrow of his brow at the knock upon their new door. And indeed, it had been Conlaed who had been rising to answer. When, instead, his wife had bidden him to go and wash up before she saw fit to feed him. There was a smile, "Of course, vest'acha...." But when the door opened -- and he saw one that he did not recognize from the Row (their usual venue for performing) or Luib? He would still wash...and stay where he could see and hear what was going on. For Breanna was his greatest treasure, so he watched her with care. But what was this? The man wished her to craft... bog iron? Conlaed still, frowning. There was a narrowing of his eyes. Who came with bog iron to his house? He moved toward the front door, offering the man a warm smile, "An' why do you not desire something more? Wonderous are the designs that my vest'acha can make in brass, silver, and gold......" (D)
Breanna: "Dah, gemstones as well, but..I can not do the iron. It will mar me to do so." One day in Luib, a kind person thought to give them a lucky horsehoe. That one trinket had caused her great pain, nearly laying her low for more than two weeks. It was not his fault, nor was it any others. It was simply the odd quirk among many she possessed. She back away from the bag, while the sir would insist for a moment. "Surely..well, it can be replicated in another medium. But if not bog iron what make you lanterns out of?" Breanna opened her mouth with a simplistic one, "Mined iron not of a bog, but more of the earth. It is merely the way it is. If you wish it fashioned to something Conlaed can but not at the house." The babe seemed to sense it's mother recoiling, would a spector, phantom thought offer comfort? In due course the man prepared to take his leave, promising to inquire of other subjects. As the door was slightly closed, she watched him make his leave. "Were i wish that could change." She muttered. She knewof the iron deposits used in things. Why not? Twas a resource! For the most part she was fine, it was merely to keep it within her own hands.. (d)
Breanna: "Will you not come in to the shop, husband? You have been on this step for hour after hour. You are no more going to perfect ice crystals for show than God is going to tell you hi smiddle name. Come inside! You will catch cold." Breanna scolded, the love was not absent from the words, but instruction was paramount. Sweet heavens above! Was there not a shop to set up, things to clean, a home to furnish? Was there not ample things that would pull him away from his blue-ember hobby? The lane began to amble to a moment's pause. Stalls pulled down curtain to conceal the table of business whilst inside they discussed the next course of action. The jingle of coin?Ah, this too was lost. (d)
Conlaed: For all the world, it seemed that for but a few minutes that Conlaed had not heard his wife's words. With the sleeve of his tunic, he wiped the last small bit of liquid - remants of the mundane chemical they used to breathe fire on stage - from his chin. His eyes were fixed quietly on the point where the last of his ice crystal fire had faded into smoke. He had been close enough to taste the success that time. There was a slight shake of his head, a sigh. It was frustrating, when he was working a project and could not get it come together. But Breanna was correct... he was starting to get cold. He scowled softly at that, shaking his head. Then he turned, and headed into the shop. He smiled, reaching out to wrap his arm around her waist, "I am cold." He said, grinning, "Make me warm?" (D)
Breanna: The liquid dripped on to the clean stairs into a pool of oil-like sheen. Bits of powder stained the door as if it were a shower of stardust instead of a little stage essence. Magick, wonder; the art of fire was as much a science as it was theater. The alchemist in her husband never stopped mixing pieces of salt peter with this vial or that concoction to create some effect that would either dazzle the masses, or make a wife angered at what remained for her to clean up. Conlaed, Oh Prince of Fire Eaters! You sully your new steps, your door! Breanna forgave him. She was no better if a whimsy nagged in the mind like a mystery to be solved. Beautiful soft hands were oft covered in oil, dirt, and black dust from bending materials to her desire in the crafting of lanterns. Fabric pieces lay littered, the corpses of her costume ideas. "Dah, I warm you," she purred to him, pulling him to but her side made it seem as if high summer had come. "I warm you" (d)
Conlaed: Conlaed nuzzled her neck softly, smiling as he held her to him. With his two burly arms wrapped about her waist, there was a suitable ease to guiding her back toward the fire. At least let it be said, that it had been the *back* door and steps that had been sullied by the alchemical arts. Their front porch was as prisninte as the snow that had fallen. There was a soft brush of his lips against her cheek, a smile. "You ever think that we shall come this far? Have a shop of our own, dazzel with our shows?" He could not help bt smile softly, nodding his head. "I never think we come this far...... That I have so much." (D)
Breanna: "You have as much as your hands can make and more because you deserve them. No, vest;acha, I never thought that this would be ours. If our family could but see this, they would have fallen to shock. Think you in County Clare they faint?" Oh how her mother's kin would have bawked at any semblance of the wild horse being bridled by a bit of 'settling' for this sort of life! Conlaed knew, just as she, what the truth was. Oh she remembered his writing in great books, his dreams. A stall to sell a few hand written works for none would print them after meeting his work. Some were kinder, only to revoke promises of larger stipend. The road was long, and weary. The road had curved through Europe to cut right down to the likes of this place where they had enough fortune for two such places! She chuckled. "Ah, we are fortunate. The shop was meant for us. Brigid told us so." (d)
Conlaed: There was a soft smile and touch of laughter, "Dah, dah...... For you to settle so? They gasp and click their tongues at me." He said the last with mocking fear. T'was the most dreadful of punishments -- the wise women clicking their tongues. The road had been long and weary, winding from Ireland, through the Middle East, before at last snaking back to the land of the Celts. That they should have a home that did not move -- neyt, two of them? There was a smile, before he murmured, "We should have a good vardo too......so they not click their tongue so much." He snuggled with her, gently sitting with her down on the couch. In front of the warm fire. (D)
Breanna:"They would say it will not last. She will tire, or he will not be able to hold her. They would say the world is too vast for the uncontented. They may say as they like." The road indeed was long, carrying them many places, through many people. Each adventure defined them in a special way. Some could not see special. Some did not understand unique, or brilliant. Where others saw cursed people they saw themselves as highly blessed! "Are you hungry?" She asked him, making sure to take down her own ornamental hoop work. Ever busy, ever the same. She would scold him where once inside he might of her, for it was evident she was working on hoops to spin on her arms for show, when she ought be sitting (d)
Conlaed: There was a gentle smile, as he saw that. He refrained from commenting on the hoops, knowing that like his own hands -- hers were never quiet. The one teaching of the great Catholic church that the believed was 'idle hands are the devil's workshop'. And their hands were ever busy, whether it was through his writing or her making of jewlery and lanterns for their shop. "I am saited," he said, "For now." He smiled. He sat with her quietly. "I cannot await the arrival of our little one...." (D)
Breanna: "Nor I...nor I..but for now tis still the days of us. What shall we do for our little one? We have yet to talk on the sort of craddle we should have, to go with all our other things." As the back door was shut, the front door was alive. Knock, knock! The bell wouldn't sound for the fixture was locked given the hour that it was. "Hmm, wonder who that is." This sort of thing was usual in Luib, where they rented rooms, but she fathomed the city folk preferred decent hours that while one appreciated a gypsy didn't keep. Kissing Conlaed's hands, she bid him to wash for supper while she went to see whom might be upon those clean virgin steps. On it was a man of medium height. There was a sheen to his black hair, a glint in his eye. "I'm sorry, I hear that there are now two whom not only do art, but make it. I was seeking a necklace made for my wife, with a charm out of an iron that was found." The man was not ill-intentioned, but already the substance in his bag passed to her for inspection revealed one thing did not pass inspection. "Sir, tis late, but I tell you now. I will work in most anything, but my hands can not touch the iron from bogs. Be it the ore or the bog itself, it harms me." It was a strange malady, one that he had not heard of for he was not among those of the row, or luib, that cared. (d)
Conlaed: There was a furrow of his brow at the knock upon their new door. And indeed, it had been Conlaed who had been rising to answer. When, instead, his wife had bidden him to go and wash up before she saw fit to feed him. There was a smile, "Of course, vest'acha...." But when the door opened -- and he saw one that he did not recognize from the Row (their usual venue for performing) or Luib? He would still wash...and stay where he could see and hear what was going on. For Breanna was his greatest treasure, so he watched her with care. But what was this? The man wished her to craft... bog iron? Conlaed still, frowning. There was a narrowing of his eyes. Who came with bog iron to his house? He moved toward the front door, offering the man a warm smile, "An' why do you not desire something more? Wonderous are the designs that my vest'acha can make in brass, silver, and gold......" (D)
Breanna: "Dah, gemstones as well, but..I can not do the iron. It will mar me to do so." One day in Luib, a kind person thought to give them a lucky horsehoe. That one trinket had caused her great pain, nearly laying her low for more than two weeks. It was not his fault, nor was it any others. It was simply the odd quirk among many she possessed. She back away from the bag, while the sir would insist for a moment. "Surely..well, it can be replicated in another medium. But if not bog iron what make you lanterns out of?" Breanna opened her mouth with a simplistic one, "Mined iron not of a bog, but more of the earth. It is merely the way it is. If you wish it fashioned to something Conlaed can but not at the house." The babe seemed to sense it's mother recoiling, would a spector, phantom thought offer comfort? In due course the man prepared to take his leave, promising to inquire of other subjects. As the door was slightly closed, she watched him make his leave. "Were i wish that could change." She muttered. She knewof the iron deposits used in things. Why not? Twas a resource! For the most part she was fine, it was merely to keep it within her own hands.. (d)
