Re: Wren + Ana: woods
Wren sensed things, but they were things seen and not understood, and they didn't come when bid. They had no rhyme, and they had no reason, and she couldn't sense anything from this woman. But it wasn't surprising, because her visions were active, things happening, a world of tiny possibilities. She knew nothing of herself, and she wouldn't know to sense herself in another. She was a woman without family, and even new knowledge didn't change that she was devoid and bereft.
But she liked the woman with her warm face and dark hair, and she wanted to tell her to live beyond these woods. Perhaps that was odd, strangeness for an outcast like herself, but there was necessity and there was choice, and they were not always one in the same.
"Ana," the ringleted blonde said, and she tasted the name like a caress, habit and slow. "Ana," she repeated, and she smiled softly. "It suits you. It's a real name, one made for places like this." She motioned hand to the tall canopy, pale wrist and her gaze catching on wood and green, and then focusing on the woman's hand. Fingers soft, and Wren's were the same.
"I dance. I sing. I pleasure," she responded, shameless and without any concept of the fact that she should guarded about her work. She knew, of course, that selling pleasure was a thing outside, unaccepted by the religious that poured into church on Sundays and worshiped loudly.
She drew her hand back softly, with no hurry, no problem with touch. The retreat was warm and lingering fingers. "Do you get lonely here? I think I would. Non. I know I would. I go where people are. I like the warmth."