Moxie (near her current age) is walking through the winding cobblestone streets of Lowtown with Marley, a boy with startling green eyes and reddish hair. Not many are around, just the street-sweeping automata left, their gears whirring and clanking as they clear the rubbish from the streets. She's chattering endlessly about the day, the latest heist, the stupid hat she saw that stuck-up guy wearing, etc. It actually takes her a moment to realize Marley has stopped walking.
"Marl. . .?" she starts, but he shushes her. She knows to trust him and his instincts, so she stops, and she listens. He's staring intently into the darkened shelter of some sort of shop –– blacksmith, it looks like. It takes her a moment to see it, but when she does, she gasps.
There's a little creature there. It's small and brown, with wrinkled skin and quite ugly –– and there's something wrong. It only moves in fits and jerks, a brief flurry of motion and life before it creaks to a halt again. When it does, it's not just still, it's devoid of vigour, nothing more than stone and dirt. It seems to be trying to sweep the place.
"A Brownie. . ." she says, awed, and almost takes a step closer before Marley stops her.
"You'll scare it off, dodo," he says, shaking his head. She, however, grows increasingly disturbed by the way it seems to teeter between living and inanimate.
"It ain't altogether right, though, Marl? What's wrong with it. . .?"
Marley looks a little sad and shakes his head.
"You know it, Wren. The magic's going from the world. It's flickerin' out, ain't gonna be around long, even when them folk call for it," his eyes flick briefly to the little offering of bread and milk laid out. Moxie has nothing to say to that. She knows, she knew before she asked, even Marley, after all––
Well. It had been a very, very long time since he'd been able to take his true form.
". . .I get em. Why they're so mad. Sometimes, I feel that rage, and why they rip the human world apart," he says, at length, sad and trembling with something a little dark.
"Marl," she says, admonishing, but he's already shaking his head.
"I know. M'sorry. I said I get it. I ain't about to nip at the heels of the Hunt or nothin'.
. . .But I get it."
She watches the little creature with him a moment longer as it stutters and jerks, trying to set aside its broom before making for the offering. Then she turns away.
Dying Magic
"Marl. . .?" she starts, but he shushes her. She knows to trust him and his instincts, so she stops, and she listens. He's staring intently into the darkened shelter of some sort of shop –– blacksmith, it looks like. It takes her a moment to see it, but when she does, she gasps.
There's a little creature there. It's small and brown, with wrinkled skin and quite ugly –– and there's something wrong. It only moves in fits and jerks, a brief flurry of motion and life before it creaks to a halt again. When it does, it's not just still, it's devoid of vigour, nothing more than stone and dirt. It seems to be trying to sweep the place.
"A Brownie. . ." she says, awed, and almost takes a step closer before Marley stops her.
"You'll scare it off, dodo," he says, shaking his head. She, however, grows increasingly disturbed by the way it seems to teeter between living and inanimate.
"It ain't altogether right, though, Marl? What's wrong with it. . .?"
Marley looks a little sad and shakes his head.
"You know it, Wren. The magic's going from the world. It's flickerin' out, ain't gonna be around long, even when them folk call for it," his eyes flick briefly to the little offering of bread and milk laid out. Moxie has nothing to say to that. She knows, she knew before she asked, even Marley, after all––
Well. It had been a very, very long time since he'd been able to take his true form.
". . .I get em. Why they're so mad. Sometimes, I feel that rage, and why they rip the human world apart," he says, at length, sad and trembling with something a little dark.
"Marl," she says, admonishing, but he's already shaking his head.
"I know. M'sorry. I said I get it. I ain't about to nip at the heels of the Hunt or nothin'.
. . .But I get it."
She watches the little creature with him a moment longer as it stutters and jerks, trying to set aside its broom before making for the offering. Then she turns away.
They walk the rest of the way in silence.