A Winter Meeting

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic
A stranger stumbles onto a campsite on a winters night, and meets a woman of the most unusual sort.

Submitted: January 13, 2012

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Submitted: January 13, 2012

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Following the sound of a crackling fire, you make your way hesitantly through the hidden paths of the forest. The acidic scent of wood smoke wafts through the branches, creating a haze that the moon filters through. It hovers above ground level, welcoming and luring. Twigs and leaves crinkle beneath your feet as you take the last few steps from the forest and enter into the fire lit alcove.

Wild flowers bloom in a rainbow of colors and shapes, though it is well into the depths of winter. A harsh moon shines bright over head, pregnant and full as she makes her way across the sky. Shadows stay well beyond the flame’s golden reach, hidden amidst the trees. There is no shelter, but a lone figure sits on a blanket beside the fire.

Her hair is a tumble of moon colored waves, her eyes dark as the night sky. A dress of white forms to her body, showing curves any female human would crave and envy. Arched eyebrows raise as she takes in your travel weary attire before her hands stop their spell weaving and motion to an empty log.

“Welcome, weary traveler, to my fire.” Her voice is pure as honey and just as smooth. “Tis a cold one tonight, that is certain. Too cold for a lonely traveler such as yourself to be wandering it alone.”

Taking a seat and warming your hands, you cast another look around and find two sets of yellow eyes watching your every move. Sitting in the branches, two snow white owls rest, observing this newcomer with a steady gaze.

The woman’s voice calls you back to her. “I am Alanis Silver Storme. Most in Candora know me simply as the Silver Storm, and others as the North Star.” She smiles. “But you, my friend, may call me Silver.”

With an arch of her delicate hands the flames leap and the owls swoop from their perches. They disappear into the night with a single call, leaving behind one white feather in your lap. When you return your gaze unto the woman, she is gone. In her place is simply a story book, old and weathered with age. In it, a single white feather marks the place of the beginning of a tale.  Looking back into the night, three owls embrace the stars.


© Copyright 2017 Silver Storme. All rights reserved.

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