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SILVER
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"Ah, Silver, of course - my Guide to safehaven, the Golden Lark," the seated Rhymer idly tuned his ivory harp by the window. Slate eyes looked up, an impish grin tugging the corners of his mouth, "A beauty was she, if ever I saw one; the kind of maid who inspires sonnets and ballads enough to keep a score of minstrels occupied for life. And well deserving, I might add, with hair the pixies surely spun to gold, such glorious tresses, glittering with a wanton spirit and light that rivaled the good sun."
He strummed a chord, frowned at the slightly flat sound, and adjusted the strings, contininuing, "My simple words cannot give due justice to her eyes, those precious blues inlaid with silver. I daresay they were sapphires stolen from the Fae Queen's crown, and the jealous Lady, enraged at her loss, sent her eldest Spider-guardian across the Planes of Life to retreive them." Colbin strummed a chord, the sweet sound meeting his standards, and continued on with the tale as though he were recounting a day to the baker's.
"And so the venomous guardian came upon the sleeping Silver, but lo, such innocent beauty the Arachnid had never seen, a complexion of honeyed milk, cupid's bow lips of the finest pink, such health and glory to the glow of her skin... and here she had lived in the land of the Fair Folk her entire life! Her fangs, laced with poisons that might make the darkest apothecary's shiver, would not dislodge the gems, she could not!
"Knowing the futility of returning without the jewels yet loathing the thought of disfiguring this gentle lady, the Guardian, for the first time in centuries, wept bitterly. Her spider's tears, silver and laced with the purest silk pattered upon the lids of sweet Silver, who awoke with a start and brushed the arachnid away, mercifully crushing her, simple though the reflex was. From then her glittering eyes were webbed with silver, and the Mistress of the Fae, her guardian dead and precious gems altered, gave up pursuit."
A chocolate brow quirked as the grin remained, "You look at me skeptically, sir, though by my oath as a bard, 'tis what the Elf Queen told me not three harvests past. Ah, but wait, our talk must cease for the sup-hour's high and I must tell the Queen. Pleasant winds and sweet water, and should you happen upon gentle Silver, do give my most gracious regards."
~Colbin The Rhymer
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All writings copyrighted
KSI 2000-2004 All Rights Reserved
Dont Steal
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