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For the first time in a long, long time...
From behind the fence, the stones were restless.
Little bits of dust, undisturbed in nearly ten years by either animal or man, shook loose and fell to the mossy ground about the graves. The names, carefully carved into some of the soft, sandstone faces, shifted a little in the dim light from the window in the sexton's hovel.
The stones were restless. The light hadn't been there a few minutes before.
From inside the hovel came the sound of muttering, an indistinct sleepy sound. The light grew brighter as its source moved or was moved closer to the window. The glazing over the opening was imperfect, the glass itself was dimmed by the smoke of years of cheap candles and fat lamps, and small glimmers slipped out around the edges to caress and soothe the stones' collective distress. The sound resolved to a voice, and the muttering grew a little louder, a splenetic irritability creeping in. The light moved away.
The door to the hovel opened outward, the hinges of the door protesting their stiffness and waking nearby birds from their avian dreams. The light spilled in a rush over the stones, and what little warmth had been inside escaped with relief out of the claustrophobic little shack. The figure in the doorway held a candle in one hand, and something indistinctly spherical in the other. Setting the candle down on the closest stone, he raised the object, pulled a cork from it's apex and held it above his face, turning his open mouth up to drink of the water that poured out of what the moon silhouetted and revealed as a human skull. He closed his mouth and swallowed, turning his head downward and letting the water pour over his head. He lowered the skull, his father's he would have said to anyone who asked (though, oddly, no one ever did), and replaced the cork. He drew his sleeved arm over his face and shook the water out of what remained of his hair.
"Where the shaggin' 'ell," Solace said in a thin Welsh, diluted by long years away from his native home, "did I put that bloody shovel..?"
Little bits of dust, undisturbed in nearly ten years by either animal or man, shook loose and fell to the mossy ground about the graves. The names, carefully carved into some of the soft, sandstone faces, shifted a little in the dim light from the window in the sexton's hovel.
The stones were restless. The light hadn't been there a few minutes before.
From inside the hovel came the sound of muttering, an indistinct sleepy sound. The light grew brighter as its source moved or was moved closer to the window. The glazing over the opening was imperfect, the glass itself was dimmed by the smoke of years of cheap candles and fat lamps, and small glimmers slipped out around the edges to caress and soothe the stones' collective distress. The sound resolved to a voice, and the muttering grew a little louder, a splenetic irritability creeping in. The light moved away.
The door to the hovel opened outward, the hinges of the door protesting their stiffness and waking nearby birds from their avian dreams. The light spilled in a rush over the stones, and what little warmth had been inside escaped with relief out of the claustrophobic little shack. The figure in the doorway held a candle in one hand, and something indistinctly spherical in the other. Setting the candle down on the closest stone, he raised the object, pulled a cork from it's apex and held it above his face, turning his open mouth up to drink of the water that poured out of what the moon silhouetted and revealed as a human skull. He closed his mouth and swallowed, turning his head downward and letting the water pour over his head. He lowered the skull, his father's he would have said to anyone who asked (though, oddly, no one ever did), and replaced the cork. He drew his sleeved arm over his face and shook the water out of what remained of his hair.
"Where the shaggin' 'ell," Solace said in a thin Welsh, diluted by long years away from his native home, "did I put that bloody shovel..?"
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Where? White Hart (http://www.historic-arts.com/white_hart_renaissance_faire/), largely due to
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If you can't find the shovel, would you like for me to see if Ray's dad can make one? He's got a full woodshop in his garage that he's always looking for an excuse to use.
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I went looking for my shovel last night on the off-chance that I might not have thrown it away in the last round of house cleaning, and it's nowhere to be seen. If Ray's dad could make a shovel per spec, that would just be...well, I'd be really grateful.
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AY! 'Ere 'e iz!
I'm interested in hearing the skull story too. I always figured your own skull had too many holes in it to hold water though. :-P
Re: AY! 'Ere 'e iz!
I'd thought about doing that last year, and never made the time for it, though I may yet do it.
Now comes the whirlwind of prop making and slimming down to fit into the old costumes. The last time I played Solace I was thirty or forty pounds lighter.