//------------------------------// // Interlude - Moonlight Whispers // Story: Mal Keyye Ko Keizaal // by Dragon Dreaming //------------------------------// They were encamped for the night, their tents pitched, the fire built, the horses set to pasture, and the wagon locked. She tended the pot, reaching over occasionally to give the stew within a swirl, or taking a small taste. Mostly, though, her eyes were on the stars and the moons, words and notes and pictures tumbling through her mind, one after another, each taking its place in the moonlight, then moving on to make way for the next. There was one that was persistent, however. Skyrim was cold. She shivered, and turned, so that the warmth of the fire would reach her other side, as well, and took another taste of the stew. Ah. It was ready. Pursing her lips, she gave a short, sharp whistle, and the others came running. Bowl in hand, she returned her attention to the moons, allowing the stew, which was delicious, to warm her from the inside. Beside her, Ma’randru-jo told his stories to Khayla, as he always did, and across the fire, Ri’saad and Atahbah shared both seat and bowl, as they always did. Habit did not take her this night, however. On other nights, she would take out her lute, and play, and sing, and sometimes there would be dancing. Or she would tell a tale, of tragedy, of comedy, of drama, of adventure - and the others would listen, as they always did. But tonight, there was a whisper in her ear, a tingle in her tail, a twitching in her whiskers. So she watched the moons. And then, for just a moment, they disappeared. A shadow had crossed them, swift as a thought and just as transient, but she had seen it. “Hmmmmm. Well, Pinkie,” she whispered, scratching at her chin, “it looks like interesting times ahead.”