communicating well with them. I had seen his handiwork many times. It was beautiful. If anyone could fake horse-whispering, I was sure it was him.
Sonya was caught up momentarily in some piece of return business or other, and I took the opportunity to survey what I could see of the encampment while my companions were occupied. It was dirt and pipe corral and vertical pavement, but really rather colorful with all the varying shades of horses and those patchwork tents. There were flies, of course, but they were green. Iridescent. Probably toxin-tainted. I wondered if their bite was corruptible to the horses in any way.
“Ready for the grand tour?” Sonya inquired at my side.
She led us through the stables first, since that's where we started, showing us where everything belonged and functioned. There were two barns, a number of sheds, and round pens between everything.
“There are a couple makeshift pens at the back of camp as well, behind the tents,” the Lieutenant informed us, and with that our attention was led to the outskirts. “Military personnel fill the boring tents. They're what we came in. If you need one of us in the dead of night, you can be sure to find us in one of them. Lady Alejandra, however – a resident here – has allowed us to expand. She's somewhat of a gypsy, came to us from the Shardscape. Survived there on her own until pitching us a deal. She makes tents – out of salvaged paintings and curtains. You can see her handiwork” - she gestured to some of the patchwork entities as we came upon them - “Quite something.”
“Who are they for?”
“We have a couple refugees on hand. But also, they make it possible for those of us who used to share to split and have some privacy.”
I marveled at the contraptions as we passed, at the overlapping array of artwork that each was. I recognized the works of Thomas Kinkade and Claude Monet, but there were many, many others who had unknowingly contributed to these masterpiece shelters. Sometimes panels of curtain were secured over the tops like pleated hats, and sometimes they were trimmed and put across the entrances like respectable curtains, patterns that contrasted or complimented the kaleidoscope of canvas art. It was a fascinating medium to come out of the rubble.
“This one is vacant,” the Lieutenant pointed out, indicating a shelter that was heavily done in the works of the first artist I had recognized. And to think: I had always fancied I might live in a Thomas Kinkade house. I was charmed.
The charm was dampened, however, as the Lieutenant pointed out another availability to Jay, a few tents down the line, and I inquired after the previous occupants.
“They're dead,” the Lieutenant said curtly, despite the trace of regret that diluted itself in her eyes.
And I was reminded again: this was war.
*
When it was dark in the camp and we'd had a dinner of rabbit in herb dressing, the uniformed division began to retire to their tents. I had to wonder how many of them were horsemen and how many of them knew nothing but combat drills and survival tricks and how to be resourceful when it was required of them. I noticed only one man not dressed in military camouflage, and assumed he was one that was originally a trainer. My eyes only followed him a few moments before the drooping of my lids got the better of me, though, and I rose to find my way to my own tent. Jay's silhouette was already moving about inside his, projected onto the mottled canvas by whatever light source he had scared up.
Pushing aside the cream-and-blue floral curtain that fell across the entrance to my shelter, I stepped into my shaded new quarters, squinting my bleary eyes so that they would adjust. I scuffed about the floor with my boots, searching for blankets, wishing I had attained a light source like Jay. It quickly became apparent, though, even through the numbing walls of my boots, that my floor was barren of all luxury.
I was back outside my tent
Sonya was caught up momentarily in some piece of return business or other, and I took the opportunity to survey what I could see of the encampment while my companions were occupied. It was dirt and pipe corral and vertical pavement, but really rather colorful with all the varying shades of horses and those patchwork tents. There were flies, of course, but they were green. Iridescent. Probably toxin-tainted. I wondered if their bite was corruptible to the horses in any way.
“Ready for the grand tour?” Sonya inquired at my side.
She led us through the stables first, since that's where we started, showing us where everything belonged and functioned. There were two barns, a number of sheds, and round pens between everything.
“There are a couple makeshift pens at the back of camp as well, behind the tents,” the Lieutenant informed us, and with that our attention was led to the outskirts. “Military personnel fill the boring tents. They're what we came in. If you need one of us in the dead of night, you can be sure to find us in one of them. Lady Alejandra, however – a resident here – has allowed us to expand. She's somewhat of a gypsy, came to us from the Shardscape. Survived there on her own until pitching us a deal. She makes tents – out of salvaged paintings and curtains. You can see her handiwork” - she gestured to some of the patchwork entities as we came upon them - “Quite something.”
“Who are they for?”
“We have a couple refugees on hand. But also, they make it possible for those of us who used to share to split and have some privacy.”
I marveled at the contraptions as we passed, at the overlapping array of artwork that each was. I recognized the works of Thomas Kinkade and Claude Monet, but there were many, many others who had unknowingly contributed to these masterpiece shelters. Sometimes panels of curtain were secured over the tops like pleated hats, and sometimes they were trimmed and put across the entrances like respectable curtains, patterns that contrasted or complimented the kaleidoscope of canvas art. It was a fascinating medium to come out of the rubble.
“This one is vacant,” the Lieutenant pointed out, indicating a shelter that was heavily done in the works of the first artist I had recognized. And to think: I had always fancied I might live in a Thomas Kinkade house. I was charmed.
The charm was dampened, however, as the Lieutenant pointed out another availability to Jay, a few tents down the line, and I inquired after the previous occupants.
“They're dead,” the Lieutenant said curtly, despite the trace of regret that diluted itself in her eyes.
And I was reminded again: this was war.
*
When it was dark in the camp and we'd had a dinner of rabbit in herb dressing, the uniformed division began to retire to their tents. I had to wonder how many of them were horsemen and how many of them knew nothing but combat drills and survival tricks and how to be resourceful when it was required of them. I noticed only one man not dressed in military camouflage, and assumed he was one that was originally a trainer. My eyes only followed him a few moments before the drooping of my lids got the better of me, though, and I rose to find my way to my own tent. Jay's silhouette was already moving about inside his, projected onto the mottled canvas by whatever light source he had scared up.
Pushing aside the cream-and-blue floral curtain that fell across the entrance to my shelter, I stepped into my shaded new quarters, squinting my bleary eyes so that they would adjust. I scuffed about the floor with my boots, searching for blankets, wishing I had attained a light source like Jay. It quickly became apparent, though, even through the numbing walls of my boots, that my floor was barren of all luxury.
I was back outside my tent
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