[center][color=#8348AA][h3]"Y' like horses in a field 'bout to get whipped, starin' 'stead of runnin'! You want the damn mutt? Act like it!"[/h3][/color][/center]Past the great expanse of fen and forest was the shoreline of Woed-- the beach, and before that was a ravine to aid the transition from grass and soil to sand. But, even before all of this, back where the earth squelched undertoe, where the open sky suffocated under leafy canopy, and where there was only obscurity, solemnity, and-- worse of all-- snakes, there was rumored to be a cottage or two. A refuge for the reclusive, those unknown who vied to remain so. This was, until, in a sudden bout of urgency, they emerged like living dead from the wilderness and began a hastened scramble down the cliffside to the beach. They grimaced, they grunted, and they hobbled, but-- and this is when one gentleman was engaged in enthusiastic conference-- they had managed a considerable distance, leaving holes and footprints in the sand. 

“They,” the figure of crumbled posture, their every step teeming with rheumatism and fragility. And yet, the antique mysticism of their dress-- a miscellany of fabrics and jewelry and beads-- and, most telling, the scowl carved into their gnarled and textured face-- shadows cast and caught like the web of wrinkles faded in the intoxicating glow of the Mote growing closer, closer. Mind, it would be impolite to make any presumptions of the travellers, to make any presumptions of their presumptions of [i]this[/i] traveller. Their appearance there was instantaneous. Did she shock, [i]scare?[/i] Well, all in all, she was a hag. 

Regardless, her story did not involve or address any others in the vicinity. The hag was unconcerned. She was in the midst of removing her soft-soled shoes. She was bracing for arching another dune. There was, kneeled in the sand--

[color=#8348AA]--[b]"Move.”[/b][/color]

--someone pushed aside for the Mote.

And then, it was almost too close. It was almost too perfect-- imperfect: coarse, and scarred. Those engravings immersed her in a hypnotic, consecrated color. She strode forward into the surf as if sleep-walking. 

The old woman muttered under her breath: [color=#8348AA][b]"Disrespectful... Reactin' t' magic like this."[/b][/color]

The maelstrom of miscellany churned onward and above her; she met it mournfully, the woman, without considering the matching revolution at its base. The sea turned and turned as she, in a step, and then another, approached the object of her infatuation, her sympathy. Those wrinkles-- culminated ire and scorn-- smoothed and languished in her solemnity, and her headscarf was coming loose. 

She could see the dog, and something clicked. Her eyes, once wistful, filled with color, darkened. The woman's brow folded over. She whisked around to see the other figures standing, then. She whisked back to see the dog, trapped and spinning. She whisked around towards the kneeling, palled little girl; the more-dignified man accompanied with such fascinating perplexities as a pirate's eye patch, a hunter's bird of prey; and then the owner of the dog... 

And then the woman whisked back towards the dog. And then around again. And then! [color=#8348AA][b]"Alright, alright! Get my cane, you worms! Y' like horses in a field 'bout to get whipped, starin' 'stead of runnin'! You want the damn mutt? Act like it! We'll pull 'em out! I said [i]get my cane! Hurry up!"[/i][/b][/color]