Desert (438 words)
Long adrift in a hallway the sound of piano echoes along the walls. Though the walls seem to swallow the sound and spit it back up with a harrowed warble every time the sound teases the wood mold. Drawing closer to the noise, the piano keys are struck reverently, rapid declining notes like that of twinkling stars highlighting chords filling the entire wing of the house with melancholic strife. Mourning sorrows as expensive as space itself cast a radius around the host, daring anyone to get near to be taken whole and lost.
Trucking through the wallowing muck and reaching the core lounge room, the host of such a heavy heart reveals himself. Shadow sits at the piano bench, not a single thought of his own, lost to his own perfected motions. Beneath him swings his tail in time to the rhythm, like a precise machine. And further fashion, he gives no notion to the second presence in the room, draping herself over the red lounge couch not too far from the lifted floor the piano overlooks.
“You know, you could really use a change in tune.” Rouge says, laying the back of her hand on her forehead and swooning back “That song is so dreary, no wonder you're so down all the time.”
Shadow refuses to host her opinions, letting out a curt snort. But the acknowledgement was all she needed. He's listening.
“You know, I've been hearing some rumors up and about.” She twirls her hair, voice dropping “about those stones you were looking into.”
For a second his tail falters, missing half a beat and resituating itself in the next staff. Shadow’s third eye flicks in her direction, now anticipating something worthwhile to be said.
Rouge smiles to herself “Well, they're saying that there's some kind of festival, off in that grassy little town off the coast. That they specialize in it.”
“When?” His voice cuts through the music, sharp, flat, but deep within his hollow cracks, hopeful.
He's been waiting for some kind of good news about his pursuit of these ‘magic stones’ for ages. Rouge has her doubts they'll ever live up to what he's sized them up to be, some kind of miracle cure-all for everything he loathes about the situation he's built for himself. Though, irresistible are the stones' luster and shine. She must have them for herself.
“Only a few days out, they're making preparations now. I think it's a worthwhile trip out.” She purrs “And we can do your antsy little round-up afterwards.”
Shadow hums in thought. It matches pitch with the end of the song.
“I expect results.”
