dustydiary (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dustydiary) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
chaos_precip2012-07-30 10:53 pm
dustydiary) wrote in chaos_precip2012-07-30 10:53 pm
Fiction - The Dust Witch
April
I took Emma to a little camp down the hill from the pass. She's been doing a lot better. I want to see how she copes in crowds. If she does well enough, then maybe it'll be time to rethink things.
The whole camp was entranced by a hooded woman. I couldn't make out her race. Emma was in her child state, and she responded most strongly to the show.
The woman kneeled in the center of a pit of sand. She had only a few props, nothing more than scarves on sticks. She wore a black cloak that covered her completely, even her face and hands. It turned out that she was a storyteller.
She didn't speak in her own voice, not once. She used ventriloquism and used the scarves as proxies for the characters in her tale. They would ripple slowly or wave violently depending on the action. The voices were practiced and well-assured.
Her stories weren't just conversation. There was drama, and action. And at those moments, the scarves went away. The storyteller sat very still, then reached into the sand pit around her and threw handfuls into the air. But it didn't just fall. She controlled it with wind, with unbelievable precision. She carved the images of people, even whole scenes. It wasn't picture-perfect, but you could see peoples' silhouettes clearly. They would run and fight and chase each other, or swing swords or shoot guns. You could distinguish Human from Olia from Katzu, she was that good.
The animated sand shows couldn't last long, no more than a few seconds for a scene. But it was like watching a picture brought to life for a short time, and then she'd toss more sand up and bring another one to life. The effect was electrifying.
Her method was to tell a story, or enough of one to keep the audience attentive. Then one of her characters would announce that they were hungry and stopping to eat, and she'd stop too. Someone would bring the storyteller food, and the story would go on. She'd have someone express thirst, and get water or a fruit juice. It wasn't just food and drink, either. She built up a good Tyrant Mule's worth of cargo and supplies by the time the sun set.
I asked around. It seems she was a regular fixture here. Every few months she'd come back and trade stories for supplies. The regulars never got tired of her, and visitors found her style novel enough to be worth the goods.
Emma and I watched most of the day, coming back between other errands. We stayed far longer than we should have. But it made Emma happy, so it was worth it.
I took Emma to a little camp down the hill from the pass. She's been doing a lot better. I want to see how she copes in crowds. If she does well enough, then maybe it'll be time to rethink things.
The whole camp was entranced by a hooded woman. I couldn't make out her race. Emma was in her child state, and she responded most strongly to the show.
The woman kneeled in the center of a pit of sand. She had only a few props, nothing more than scarves on sticks. She wore a black cloak that covered her completely, even her face and hands. It turned out that she was a storyteller.
She didn't speak in her own voice, not once. She used ventriloquism and used the scarves as proxies for the characters in her tale. They would ripple slowly or wave violently depending on the action. The voices were practiced and well-assured.
Her stories weren't just conversation. There was drama, and action. And at those moments, the scarves went away. The storyteller sat very still, then reached into the sand pit around her and threw handfuls into the air. But it didn't just fall. She controlled it with wind, with unbelievable precision. She carved the images of people, even whole scenes. It wasn't picture-perfect, but you could see peoples' silhouettes clearly. They would run and fight and chase each other, or swing swords or shoot guns. You could distinguish Human from Olia from Katzu, she was that good.
The animated sand shows couldn't last long, no more than a few seconds for a scene. But it was like watching a picture brought to life for a short time, and then she'd toss more sand up and bring another one to life. The effect was electrifying.
Her method was to tell a story, or enough of one to keep the audience attentive. Then one of her characters would announce that they were hungry and stopping to eat, and she'd stop too. Someone would bring the storyteller food, and the story would go on. She'd have someone express thirst, and get water or a fruit juice. It wasn't just food and drink, either. She built up a good Tyrant Mule's worth of cargo and supplies by the time the sun set.
I asked around. It seems she was a regular fixture here. Every few months she'd come back and trade stories for supplies. The regulars never got tired of her, and visitors found her style novel enough to be worth the goods.
Emma and I watched most of the day, coming back between other errands. We stayed far longer than we should have. But it made Emma happy, so it was worth it.