The Evening Breezes Are Turning Blustery

The windows on the upper story of the Caledon Zephyr building rattle in their panes. The northern gales are in good form this eve.

Nights like this, I miss the smaller news shack up on the hill, which was buffered somewhat from the weather coming in from the seafront, and I wonder about changing the name of the paper to something less windy.

During my hiatus, there has been many deliveries to the building. Tonight, as the winds outside howl and batter the eaves, I try to make sense of why some distributors sent me kraken milk instead of ink and unbleached tanglewood pulp paper instead of something more refined—the swirling purple, green, and brown patterns in the pages have a mystical charm but it is hardly something that is good for reading. I break the seal on another crate and peer inside—who ordered pink paper?

The strong gust hits the seaward side of the building, and something bangs outside. No doubt something from one of the sidewalk stalls that was not properly secured.

I am usually a very solitary being. However, now I wish that there were more people around PenzanceTown tonight. Most evenings the town is filled with sounds of life--Scottie cursing in his brogue at having gotten candlewax in his fur again, the rhythms of Ariadne’s shuttles and looms, the periodic bump of a falling book as Miss Junie works on shelving in the library, or Anya instructing her shopgirl in Russian. When the air is still, the pirates across the water can be heard carousing and firing their guns into the air. But tonight, it is only the wind, tearing and bumping.

Maybe I should have accepted Miss Beth’s kind invitation to accompany the rest of the residents on their trek to the Harvest Festival activities in southern Caledon.

I decide a cup of tea is just what I need to chase the chill away and chastise myself again for being around mortals for too long. Spirits of the elements do not usually fear a gusty night, but here I am with this sense of foreboding wrapped around me like a shroud.

I shiver and lift the cup of tea near my face, reveling in the warmth and scent carried by its steam.

Suddenly, like crystal bells jingling, I hear a voice singing in my head. It is the Firth Witch and her song demands an audience.

~~~***OOC—Not sure when I’ll be able to get back into SL to play, so thank you for putting this in blog form so I can participate! (You guys can write me in where needed. I trust you!)

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