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The Artless Beauty: Difference between revisions
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{{Book Page|&CTranslator's note: At a trashmoot in Taggamrod, piled under a mound of crushed and sticky glass, I found a pamphlet full of stories from the Shale Labyrinth. This one -- despite the mystifying absurdity of what it claims (or, perhaps, because of it) -- was the most extraordinary to me. Reader, do you agree? | {{Book Page|&CTranslator's note: At a trashmoot in Taggamrod, piled under a mound of crushed and sticky glass, I found a pamphlet full of stories from the Shale Labyrinth. This one -- despite the mystifying absurdity of what it claims (or, perhaps, because of it) -- was the most extraordinary to me. Reader, do you agree? | ||
&yShe perched atop the branches of a blighted tree, staring up at the faint light of the spindle. When I spotted her, I caught myself mid-step, mid-breath, mid-thought. Have you ever known the misfortune of allowing your eyes to settle upon the divine vision of an apple farmer's daughter? If so, you understand how I felt in that moment. | |||
Understand: I had done all I could, before now. I would have loved to stay elsewhere, but I'd traveled six parasangs with no rest, no discoveries but for a ruin occupied by an unfriendly cult. Too busy dodging arrows to ask about empty beds or compensation, I chose the apple farm instead. I took pains to avoid her when the salt sun shone, and so too did she avoid me, remaining a slight and swathed figure shying away in the periphery of my vision. I kept my focus on the farmer's craggy visage, on his wild and prominent whiskers, on his sweetly-rotting cider breath as we arranged the terms of my lodging. | Understand: I had done all I could, before now. I would have loved to stay elsewhere, but I'd traveled six parasangs with no rest, no discoveries but for a ruin occupied by an unfriendly cult. Too busy dodging arrows to ask about empty beds or compensation, I chose the apple farm instead. I took pains to avoid her when the salt sun shone, and so too did she avoid me, remaining a slight and swathed figure shying away in the periphery of my vision. I kept my focus on the farmer's craggy visage, on his wild and prominent whiskers, on his sweetly-rotting cider breath as we arranged the terms of my lodging. | ||