Syla sat coss legged attop the grassy hill. Her eyes were closed and her lips blew softly inyo her intricately carved, wooden flute.
The beads and gems that were woven into her hair, fell in front of her face, but she paid no mind. Her hair was as black as a panther in the night, and her red headband would match nicely with her bloody colored eyes, had they been open. Her fingers were long and nimble, and her nails sharp. A glove mostly covered her hand, but for the fingers, which had been removed, to enable her to play.
Syla played a slow tune that would heve seemed more fitting before a battle, than above a sleeping, peacefull seaside town.
Her eyes burst open and she held her note. Low and sweet, it carried, down the hill and onto the water.
 Diimari_Lives · Thu Jul 12, 2007 @ 01:28pm · 2 Comments |
