three cups later....

Myr acts more like Rain in this clip. Rain absorbed a lot of the silliness I need to express when I write.

Also? I wrote this five years ago. You've been warned.

I'm resisting the urge to edit it. Here it is, then, in all its dubious glory.

* * *

The embankment leading up to the road beckoned Myr as she tromped toward it, listening to the forest sounds around her. Birds and the drone of cicadas that rose and fell like the tide, the clicks and cracks of her movement and the scurry of frightened animals. And the dull thud of horse hooves, coming from the road ahead....

She froze instantly, listening to the approaching hammer of a horse moving at a steady trot. There were two horses in the neighboring village, and none of them moved that well. It was probably a stranger.

Out here? she thought, and glanced around her. There were trees edging the road, many of them tall enough to form a natural archway over it. Without a second thought she went for the one closest to the road and climbed quickly up it, edging out onto a branch that brought her forward to get a better view. Though the tree creaked a little, it seemed solid. Nestled in, she began to examine the one who approached.

It was a man -- or so it seemed. He wasn't dressed like a woman, so she was assuming for now that it was indeed a man. His face was lost beneath the wide rim of a traveler's hat. The horse he rode was piebald, well outfitted, and loaded lightly. He was not, then, a peddler, or if he was he had little to peddle.

As he drew closer she noticed that he was unarmed, or seemed to be. He wore a long half-cloak that was a dull gray color; it was hard to tell if he concealed anything under it.

He was now just underneath her, but hadn't seemed to notice her; not that he should have. He hadn't looked up, and she hadn't been in view from her perch.

But regardless, as he came underneath the tree she was tucked up in, he stopped his horse.

She froze solid, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest.

He lifted his head and looked up at her.

She stared back.

"Hello there," he said softly.

She said nothing, thinking for some obscene reason that if she stayed still, he might still not see her.

"Hello?" he repeated.

She remained still for a moment more, than said, cautiously, "Hello." And added, on impulse, "Don't mind me. I'm just an, um, apple."

"An apple?" He blinked at her.

"Yes," she replied, nodding.

"Hunh." He scratched his chin. "Very strange fruit that grows in these parts."

"Bet you've never seen a talking apple."

"I can't say I have. I did see a talking pear once, though."

"Oh?" She shifted on her perch. "That must have been odd."

"It was. Are you going to come down?"

Myr looked at her feet, then at the branch they were steadied on. "Eventually."

"Would you like some help?"

She shook her head. "Who are you?" she inquired, shifting her weight.

He smiled, and reached up to pull off his hat. He had a full beard, and looked dusty and oily -- his hair was dark underneath the hat, and gleamed with sweat. "My name is Merod," he replied, bowing in the saddle. "This is Lad." He patted the horse’s neck. "And you are?"

She shifted again. “What are you here for?” she asked instead, not bothering to answer him just yet.

He blinked, put his hat back on, and cocked his head at her. "I am looking for someone," he said.

"Who?" she asked.

"For a piece of fruit, you ask a lot of questions," he replied. "I'll tell you who I'm looking for if you tell me who you are...."

* * *

Whoo. Merod never appears again in my stories after that clip. Too bad. He was probably a fun guy.