Played by:
AelKennyr Rhiano
BelenosStormchaser Magic
Yavanna draws her cloak around her against the twilight chill as she stands uncertainly looking at what lies ahead of her. Careful to stay in the forest shadow, she blinks as she takes in the unusual structure that lies just across the small clearing, her heart thumping with hope even as she hesitates uncertainly. A house! After wandering alone she knew not for how long, here before her at last was a house!
((A house!))
Almost as though built of the very forest itself, the walls stretching between gnarled old trees it stood, squat and somnolent, the heavy thatch speaking of great age, the windows glowing a soft golden light from within. To the side she could just make out the shadowy form of an outbuilding, a barn or stable going from the sound of restless hooves upon straw and soft snufflings coming from within its walls. Next to this she could see a fenced area, such as livestock would use, although overgrown by long grasses and beyond she thought she could just make out a fenced vegetable garden. As she watches, a shadow passes behind one of the golden windows. Definitely inhabited then.
((Definitely inhabited...))
Yavanna rubs suddenly nervous palms against her cloak and she catches her breath. At last she has found someone. Her heart beating hard in her chest she stares, excited yet hesitant towards the dwelling. As she stands here hesitant, he calls her name. Soft, barely heard, yet still she knows it is her name. She turns to stare in the direction of the call, but her eyes find nothing but the silent trees and the nodding fronds of ferns and grasses.
((...he calls her name.))
A snort from the outbuilding draws her attention back to the small settlement, the building almost hidden now from view as twilight becomes night, only the soft yellow light from the windows attesting that it still stood before her. Again she hears her name whispered upon the forest breeze, the voice seeming to carry a weight of sorrow and yearning, a sorrow that seems to match the bleakness that enfolds her far more closely than the cloak around her shoulders. She turns back to stare, searching for the one who seeks her so desperately, her heart aching with .. pain? Sorrow? What is it that seems to sit within her like a cold icy presence?
((She turns back to stare..))
She looks down at her hands as they play with the edge of her cloak, biting her lip uncertainly. Is she mad, that she hears voices thus? Is that why she was alone in the forest? Has she been cast out from her home because she is demented? Is this why she cannot remember her past?
Again she hears the voice call to her, plead with her, the tone full of a heartbreak and despair that echoes her own. She looks up but still the forest stands silent and empty. For so long now she has wandered alone, lost and empty yet here before her at last lies a settlement. A settlement with someone living there. She turns her eyes back wistfully to the cottage. Someone who might know some answers to the questions that swirl in her head. Someone real. She glances back at the forest in the direction from which the voice has called. Something in her yearns so strongly to return that call but she shakes her head regretfully and turns back to the cottage. This was real. Not voices in her head. This was solid and real. Taking a deep breath she steps forward from the shadows, closing her ears to the pleading calls her movement brings. Squaring her shoulders and swallowing her uncertainty, her long legs carry her across the clearing until she stands before the sturdy, weathered door. She lifts her hand, hesitates just a moment more and then, encouraged by the bite of the evening wind as it gusts through the forest, lightly knocks upon the door.
((Taking a deep breath she steps forward.))
((...she stands before the sturdy, weathered, door.))
A weathered hand reaches up and brushes at bits of white hair that continues to escape her bedraggled pony tail. Blue veined and wrinkled the hand, the fingers, the back of the hand, dotted with age spots and traced with fine lines. Slowly, the woman lowers the hand and plunges it back into the tub of rinse water. One plate, one bowl, one cup, her prized fork and her indispensable knife. She washes them, each one and with a clean dry cloth made from the remnants of a flour sack, she wipes them and places each item in their place. Her cup next to his. Her plate atop his, her fork carefully resting next to his. But she does not wash his things. He has no need of them, has not for these two handspan of years. She sighs and folds the hand towel, her long, tapering fingers brushing across the coarse fabric. He loved her fingers, her man did. He thought them beautiful and kissed them every night before he closed his eyes and lost himself in the world of dreams.
He kissed them before he closed his eyes for the very last time. Well, bless him and keep him, he is there, that place of dreams, between the worlds, she thinks, as she does every night.
A heavy, sigh of wind, seeps between chinks in the window, stirring the curtains, and she leans forward, peering out, but seeing nothing in the near dark of nightfall. Nothing to see, she thinks, and she absently rubs her hands across her dress, under her aged and sagging breasts, where the sweat of the day has pooled and gathered. Tomorrow she must haul her laundry down to the little pool and do her washing, she reminds herself, her lips curling a little at the smell of her own perspiration. And there are the sheets, too, they need to b----
((..she absently rubs her hands across her dress..))
A knock! She stops in mid-thought, frowning. She has no visitors and expects no one. Who can this be knocking upon her door, of all people, at this time of evening. Without thought she raises a hand and places it up on her heart. It may be that old peddlar she traded with a sennight ago. Her frown changes into a scowl. "Well, " she mutters, her voice raspy from disuse. She calls out as she moves to the door. "I told you, vile man, that I do not rent out rooms. I still do not, and you are ever a fool to be out in the woods so late. Fat as you are, some wolf will find you a feast. "
(("I told you, vile man, that I do not rent out rooms."))
Yavanna jumps at the unexpected words from within. Her skin flushes pinkly and she stands uncertain of how to reply. Unable to find words, mutely she again knocks lightly on the door.
The old woman's brow becomes a network of coarse, deep lines as she huffs loud and shuffles closer the door. Usually, the heat of the season brings to her the scant comfort that her bones ache less sharply than in the cold winter, when it feels like the ice and snow outside her wooden door steals in and seeps into her very bones. "I hear you," she calls out louder.
(("I hear you."))
She pauses, her hand on the door latch. For one moment, she considers telling that old fat peddler with the thin, greasy hair and dropsy right eye to go back to the village, But instead something inside her relents and grows a little soft. She hears the distant call of wolf kin to wolf kin. "Well," she says as she grasps the door as firmly as her arthritic hands will allow and throws it open. "You might as well stay here, but in the ..." She stops and gapes at the person standing in the doorway.
Tall and thin and willowy with skin ink the likes of which she has never seen, the old woman thrusts her face forward, eyes squinting and staring at the other, younger woman's face. "Now, who be you?" she asks.
(("Now who be you?"))
Yavanna feels a shiver run through her as the forest wind again gusts around her. Her skin dimples in goose-flesh as she draws her scanty cloak a little tighter around her body. She gasps as suddenly the door is flung open, suffusing her with the golden glow of the firelight within. Standing before her, her face in shadow, is a small woman. Her voice carries the rasp of age and disuse but even in shadow her eyes shine with a sharp intelligence. Yavanna ducks her head before that piercing gaze and stands uncertain as she murmurs softly, "P.. Please, it is cold and.. and I don't know where I am."
((..suddenly the door is flung open..))
The old woman has seen the passing of many seasons, many moons, many decades, and nearly every night, at this hour, all those hours, seasons moons and, yes, decades sit upon her shoulder, sit so heavy that she feels pressed to the earth. In all that time upon this mortal world, she has never seen a woman such as the one that stands before her.
Barefoot the lass, with waves and waves of golden hair, a thin and barely serviceable cloak, and .....the old woman squints a bit more into the darkness outside at that faintly lit figure. Is she wearing leaves and brush for clothes? The old woman's jaw works for a moment before she steps back from the door and gestures impatiently. "In with you, in with you," She answers. "Of course you're cold, in, in." But as the woman watches Yavanna, she marvels at how such a person came to be at her doorstep.
((..she marvels at how such a person came to be at her doorstep.))
Yavanna lifts a foot hesitantly to step forward as bid. She looks into the face of the other woman a moment and her lips attempt to smile a small nervous smile, but the gesture tugs oddly at her face, as though she is unused to smiling. Ducking her head again, she steps across the threshold, her bare feet instantly feeling the warmth of the floorboards beneath them. Two strides of her long legs take her to the middle of the small room and she stands there, her hands clasped behind her back, uncertain of what next she should do.
((..she stands.. uncertain of what next she should do..))
Yavanna lets her eyes flit around the room, her eyes lighting to see that the appearance from outside really was true as tree trunks curve, old and gnarled, against the walls. For some reason she did not understand this pleased her. She frowns in thought as she tries to touch the reason why, for it is there, elusive, just out of reach in her mind. Realizing how rude she must appear to her hostess, she stops staring around the room and drops her eyes to the floor. 'T..thank you.' she whispers, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire in the grate.
The old woman turns and watches the younger woman enter, closing the door as Yavanna steps through without any conscious thought. A wind picks up again, outside, and through little cracks and crevasses, some fingers of it find their way inside. Dropping the hand that closed the door to her side, the older woman makes no move to hide her open, curious stare, watching as the younger woman gazes about the room. Crossing her arms across her chest, she hobbles over to the younger woman, nodding absently as the younger stammers out her thanks.
"Have you et yet" she asks, cocking her head. Why, this young woman is wearing. strawberries and vines, leaves. They look like they have been woven into a garment that barely covers the young woman in a way that might..might...be considered decent. "Well, of course, you have," she answers herself. "You went and wore your food."
(("Have you et yet?"))
She reaches out, unable to stop herself and plucks off a red, plump strawberry and pops it into her mouth. But the strawberry was rotted, and spoilt, and she quickly cups a hand over her mouth and spits it out. Blinking, she pulls away her hand and closes her fingers over the mushed mess. Crossing to the fire, she tosses the strawberry in. "Never heard of people picking BAD strawberries to clothe themselves with." She pauses and turns back to the woman. "Never heard of people wearing strawberries. Of course you're cold."
Placing her hands on her hips, she tilts her head. "Off with the vines and leaves and such. You need proper clothes. You're a bit long in the flanks, but I can spare a cast-off or two." She doesn't wait but leaves the younger woman standing in the center of her main room. "In the mean time, you can tell me why you are running around nearly naked for the sight of men."
(("..You need proper clothes.."))
Yavanna stands dazedly as she listens to the stream of questions and comments from the old woman, for now she could see her clearly, the withered cheeks, riven with wrinkles, the white hair scraped back from her face and tied back, she could see how life has aged this one. Her looks perhaps, but not her mind or her tongue apparently, she thinks, as the crone continues to chatter at her. Uncertainly she looks down at her attire, at the leaves and fruit that adorn her. She lifts a hand to touch one of the now browning berries and murmurs, "They.. they were not always like this." As though that explained it all.
(("They.. they were not always like this."))
Another shiver passes over her despite the warmth of the room and she edges closer to the fire, seeking comfort as much from its presence in the here and now rather than the discomfort she felt any time she tried to think on her past, to seek answers. She raises her voice a little so the old woman can hear her now she has left the room. "I.. I did not think to eat my strawberries."
((..she edges closer to the fire..))
Painfully, a hand dropping to rest upon the hip which is of especial bother tonight, the woman pays but scant attention to the answers she receives. Crossing the room, her eyes rest upon a chest, not rough hewn and hastily put together of planks bowed from weathering or from hastily and ill done preservation, but to a chest that stands, as it has for decades, under a window. Dark wood richly carved, with gold handles...real gold not a cheap plate. She pauses and stretching out a hand gnarled and vein with the passage of time, she runs her fingers across the top. "Eh?" she calls out, her voice husky. "What did you say?"
((Dark wood richly carved, with gold handles..))
She rests her hand flat upon the wood and closes her eyes for a moment. Just for the moment, the years roll back, and she is watching her man carry in this same chest, the dark wood giving its own perfume to the room. She remembers how her mouth flew up and her hands rose to cover it as she watched him set the chest down under this very window.
((..the years roll back..))
Then she hears the creak of the flooring from the other room, and the years come crashing down about her again. Eyes stinging with tears she will not shed blur the room, and she forces herself to turn and cross over to another chest, the wood worm eaten. Throwing back the top upon rusty hinges, she fumbles through the clothes folded there, until she locates what she seeks. Pulling out a long woolen tunic, clean but well worn, she folds it over an arm and leans over the cheat to pick out from the contents and apron and from the very bottom of the chest, an old pair of boots, too snug for her now wider and flatter feet, and too painful with her bunions to wear. Dropping the lid back down with a crash, she turns and hobbles back to the main room, calling out, "Here, here, this is start. Get you presentable for decent folk means finding you hosen for it is obvious you nary any small clothes and.." she pauses as she re-enters the room. Her mouth twists up and a dark and ugly look comes into her face as she spits out the next words. "Tis plain to see you have hips that could birth triple, whilst mine, fruit all dried up, could but barely bore one."
((".. Get you presentable for decent folk.."))
Yavanna looks at the pile of clothing the other had placed in her arms, her fingers running lightly over the plain but study fabrics that promise much more warmth than her current attire. With a grateful whispered, "Thank you." she puts the pile on the chair near the fire and, completely unselfconsciously strips off her cloak and floral attire, before slowly donning the new clothing. Gratefully she feels warmth envelope her as the long serviceable skirt settles somewhat snugly around her hips.
((Gratefully she feels warmth envelope her..))
Yavanna tugs a little at the cuffs of the sleeves to drag them down around her wrists, for it is true the crone's build was quite different to her own. She wriggles her toes experimentally as she slides the boos over her now hose-clad feet. It wasn't just that they were a somewhat snug fit. It felt as though her feet were unused to being so encased. Shrugging, she buckles them closed. Unused or not, they were definitely warmer this way. When she is done, she looks shyly up at her benefactor and murmurs, "Is.. is this better?"
(("Is.. is this better?"))
She looks at the exotic creature that stands before. Female, to be sure, but even shorn of her odd natural apparel, the young woman before her is most unnatural. Carefully the old woman moves to stand before the younger, reaches out with a leathery, worn hand and with a callus thumb brushes a cheek where rests what looks to be a tattoo of a fern leaf. "This the mark of your people?" she asks and then nods her chin and continues. "I nar seen someone with green lips. You stain them that way?" She lowers her hand and with both hands grabs one of the hands of this younger woman, rubbing the back of Yavanna's hands as she stares at them. "And leaves and whatnot on the hands. Girl, they inked you well. " She frowns a little and sucks on her bottom lip. "Must hurt some powerful."
She drops both hands, and moves to drop heavily into her chair at the worn table at which she has her meals, morn and night. Waving a hand airily, she sighs and shifts. "Hip's painful sore tonight, girl. Sit, Sit. Can't be standing all the time, can you?" She watches the woman. Her moves, so graceful, her eyes so pained. "So," says the old woman. "Ain't talked so much since the elves were last here. Damned skinny things. Too pretty you ask me." She pauses and says, with a shrewd look. "Like you."
(("Ain't talked so much since the elves were last her.."))
Yavanna 's eyes close a moment as the crone's thumb brushes her cheek, her whole being quivering with the memory of.. of what? Another's touch? Another caress just so? She squeezes her eyes shut a moment longer as she chases that elusive memory. She opens them again as the woman takes one of her hands in hers, and wonderingly she too gazes at the strange artwork there, as though seeing it for the first time. She turns her hand this way and that as it is released and murmurs wonderingly, "I... I do not recall how they got there."
Yavanna drops her hand and follows the other to the table, carefully taking a seat on the only other chair, a chair that was surely not made for one of her build. To her surprise she finds her seat study and solid. Relaxing a little at last she folds her hands on her lap and looks at the woman fully for the first time. Her green eyes are steady although her voice quivers a little as she admits, "I do not know how I came by such markings or my attire. I.. I woke one night in the forest, wearing what you saw when I arrived, marked as I am now before you. I.." she pauses and swallows as finally she admits the truth to herself as well as the crone, "I do not know from whence I came. I am lost, truly lost."
(("..I am lost, truly lost."