Re: Wren + Ana: woods
Wren had never worked with clay. She hadn't worked with anything, and her hands were soft, her fingers not spread. No musical instruments, no works of art, and she was a thing that created nothing. Quiet, and hips that moved well to music, and a voice made for a songbird, but she didn't live a life like this one. She watched with eyes wide, looking about the space that this woman had carved out for herself, and she wondered if happiness resided in something like this. If she found something she loved, something she could love, would she feel less empty. She wasn't sure, and she didn't think the clay that marred the woman's cheek would bring any kind of fulfillment.
"It's alive," she said of the place, of the woman's home. Even in Winter yet, before the sprouting of Spring, the woods were a place alive, and this place was little different. It was alive in a different way than the carnival, where living came with outcasts and breaths commingled. Non, this was about the trees and the air and the dirt underfoot, crispy now still with chill.
"I live at the carnival. We're through the woods, beyond the road. You can probably hear us in the evenings." Because the big top was loud. The carnival was loud, and the carnival was alive. That kind of living carried audibly on the wind, and she wondered how it sounded here, this deep into the wood.
"You make things?" She stepped closer, no fear in grey eyes and only curiosity there. She wasn't lost, the ringleted blonde. This entire town was her home, and she would rest her head anywhere within it. She wasn't lost.