WC: 451 | @aethernoise asked for murr-ma! (to walk along in the water searching for something with your feet)
L'selle knew the Black Shroud was made of snakes. Little remained of the place, but still this held true: on the shore of the drained lake he stood in, charcoal and embers hissed violence at him. Smoke plumed from the green foliage and the undergrowth crackled the fake arrival of autumn. It's just the South Shroud. No fires here, no sir.
No sir, I'm not lost. This is my home. Lived here nearly half a decade. I won't say to you that it's been long enough. Turn me round to Ul'dah, the Elementals changed their mind. Eyes are the wrong color, and pants are too worn. How could you live here with those holes in your shoes? Don't the sticks jab you? Try drift wood meets toe nail. That jabs.
Tadpoles circled his ankles. The lakebottom squelched and spat sand from the pressed weeds. It's not seaweed. What do you call lake weed? Does it burn? It could.
The shore didn't chase him like the fog did. L'selle slid forward. His arms swung loose, less purpose than those beads the locals strung round trees. Heavenspillar? One day he'd find Jack Spriggins, knock him one good, and show those silly trees what a beanstalk could do. Sure the trees could see: they couldn't find the sun otherwise. Must be fun to watch families grow in cabins once you're a cabin and your growing is done.
Unless he started stretching, L'selle supposed he didn't have much growing to do anymore either. Not taller, at least. He reached his foot aside to push away the tadpoles. The lake dipped deeper; L'selle started to wade.
Water rippled around his knees. He let the cuffs of his pant legs drag, sapping and cold on his skin, and leaned to press his finger tips to the water.
A voice screamed from the shore. The owner stood on a patch of sand -- presumably because that couldn’t catch fire. Dig your toe in. See real fast how fire can travel through the ground too. L’selle ignored them. Not far enough from the shore for that yelling. They just thought he was over the deep end. He was only in it.
"What're you doing!?"
L’selle had the politeness to speak over his shoulder, but no more: "Looking."
"For!?"
"A fishin' lure." L’selle shoved his thumbs around his belt and swung a leg across the sandy lake floor.
"What's it, sentimental!?"
"No, I payed for it."
"It's worth a lot!?"
"No, I only payed for it."
“That’s daft.”
Ah, there it is. L’selle laughed. “Don’t I know it.”
The voice turned and left.
L’selle’s ankle knocked into a rock, skinning it. Wait till that hook gets your toe. That'll jab.
