Pieces of brown hair framed her face, and as she turned her head to look at the shattered pots and flowers he had crushed in his fall, he could see the caul of silver mesh studded with seed pearls capping her hair and one long plait braided down her back.
Sure, the craftsman’s prattle was continuous and full of information that Elwê could not decipher, and it made no difference to him where the other had found the clay he was molding or how thin to make the coils or just what wood shavings were best to line the fire pit to bake the vessels.
Not that they were dark and leafless, but the very shape was subtly wrong, until one saw that the branches were roots, and it was as if the trees had been flipped, trunks going into the black earth of death’s gate and the tapering forking roots reached out into the colorless gray sky and shadow moon.
heget's WordPress 