Cricket Creek Bog Searching

She watches the sadness in his gaze, and is truly and wholly caught in his tale. She is deeply intrigued by this silent stranger, and wonders if he might follow her home at the end of things. Was he lonely? How nice it would be to learn more of him and how he survived without a voice. She follows his gestures, eyes flowing from one thing to another. She understands what he means, or thinks that she does. There is a certainly kind of vanity in supplying another with words in your own mind. There is beauty in everything, she imagines he means, even in endings. She nods to his silence, smiling softly. "Without endings we would have no beginnings. These songs might not seem so lovely, if we were not deprived of them for a time." She muses, inhaling of the cold night air.

She smiles softly at his refusal to weave a tale and nods with understanding. She finds her own voice similarly hiding within her, perhaps in sympathy. "You wonder of my home?" She asks, and then waits for confirmation. "My home is lovely. Just behind us, there. We are family and we share our meals as well as our values. And now I am blessed to bring more to the world, to grow our numbers." And here, the question that seems to always follow talk of the Sun Mote Copse. "Have you heard of Molech, silent friend?" She was sure that he had not, but asked anyway. Perhaps one day someone would surprise her by responding yes. "We worship Molech in my home. A wonderful, giving God."