The Present Ängsälvor

Word Count: 920 Average Read Time: 4:36 Time Finished: Supper of the Seventh Day.

Tylendore had been floating out over the lake for an hour or so, now.

His tears had long since run dry, unlike the rain which still fell through him. The incident had begun to percolate in his mind as the memories began to overtake his shock and indignation. He was as desperate now as he was 3 years ago to come up with some sort of solution… but they don’t exactly make gloves for Your cheeks.

At least not gloves You could wear every day.

For most Ängsälvor, being touched was something which only bothered them during puberty, as the sensation might send them into a gaseous form every once in a while. It was a minor inconvenience then, as there was no fear involved, and it was well understood that this was simply a thing which happened to young Ängsälvor.

But for Tylendore, being touched had bothered him since he was out of his mother’s arms. It felt like an invasion of privacy, a dirty little reaping of his personal space and security. He had never been comfortable when others had made physical contact with him, whether it was a shoulder pat or a hand shake… Or a touch on the cheek.

And puberty had only made his discomfort worse.

It took his panicked, frenzied reaction to those innocently guilty touches and turned it outward, forcing him to share that feeling with the world in a way that the world could never understand. The Ängsälvor could barely understand it, and when he left puberty they could understand it even less so, with claims that he was perhaps, “Still growing,” or, “Not quite there yet.”

It took two very painful years for Tylendore to decide for himself that they were wrong. And then, in a foolish and youthful haze, he had decided to cut all ties for a while. Perhaps the Solid would be more understanding.

They were not.

But now, he had to get home. He needed to wash himself, to wash away the lingering emotions clinging to him like the fog cloud he now was. Deciding this, he drifted towards the bank of the lake, towards the highway which had been the site of his most recent incident.

And then, he noticed something weird: There was a four-horse carraige on the road. It had not been there a few moments ago: If Tylendore hadn’t noticed himself, he would easily be able to tell by the portal which had opened about three feet off of the ground, and was still swirling slightly in the sunless sky. It had been teleported here by some kind of magic.

And there was a girl in the road, facing the opposite direction.

Making a loud noise in the form of the cloud is not easy. Far more easy was it to create a stiff wind, or a gust which could easily allow birds to drift off. Noises were nearly impossible: With no body to use as a noisemaker, what noise was there for the wind to carry?

Though this did not stop Tylendore from trying. He sent wind after wind after the girl, trying to help her notice what was about to befall her. He continued, as fast as a cloud conceivably could, anyway, to drift towards the shore. Almost there. Just a bit more.

But, then, so was the carriage.

To her credit, the little girl noticed what was going on. She spun around to face the horse which knocked her to the ground. And then, as the carraige passed, it drove over… a small bump in the road.

He was at the shore now, and quickly tried to change back. It took him a few minutes; changing from one form to another (except when propelled by something extremely life threatening or shocking, like his fear of being touched) was a process to be worked up to, not a simple choice. By the time he was solid again, the carriage was long gone, and the girl was crying loudly…

And holding something close to her chest…? Was it crushed in the accident? Perhaps it was special to her, or something she had been given by someone close to her. Wanting to find out if that was the only thing damaged in the accident, Tylendore stepped forward… but stopped short in a moment of pause.

This had been an obviously traumatic experience for the woman, and he did not want to force his way into the situation… Bothering her with his interest when she had already been through so much that day might be seen as offensive. Tylendore had certainly felt that way at times, particularly after being hit or touched. A stranger’s care could easily be almost as bad as the event itself… but he had seen the whole thing.

She was heading away, now. Presumably to her home. He had to make a decision, and quick, or it would be too late to help her at all. He resolved to inquire after her well being, and to do so as politely as he possibly could. She might want the details of the car that hit her, after all. And there was- oddly- no one else around at the time.

And so, Tylendore shortly found himself on the steps of Tale’s house. There was no knocker on the door… and no handle. Well, it’s still polite to request entry, even when not forced to do so.

And he knocked. Bang Bang Bang.

The Fall of the Kaolin

Words: 897 Average Reading Time: 4:30 Time Completed: Second Day of Normal Writing

The sounds of the rain were what woke her.

She sat up with a start, never one to be able to slowly rouse herself from a slumber. Her painted sapphire eyes fell upon the open window, which sat just a bit to the left of the foot of her bed: Enough that, should she want to, she could look through it. But she could also completely block it out, if the mood struck her,

Today was a perfect rainy day: Enough of a storm that rain fell in steady streams from her roof in addition to the normal unobstructed droplets, but not so much that the sky was completely darkened. The clouds, just South of a perfectly porcelain white, loomed heavy and dripping above her. It was the kind of day that she savored.

Gingerly, she inched to the side of her bed. Some of the Kaolin would take 10 minutes for the next part, just to ensure that there would be no mishaps so early in the morning. After all, with skin as hard and as fragile as porcelain, fixing a chip or a scuff was not a simple task, requiring time— and money. Taleandory had been told that by her mother many a morning, as she was learning what it meant to be a Kaolin. But "Tale," as she called herself, was never one to take such caution.

Especially on a day so perfectly rainy.

She pushed herself out of bed in one fluid motion, hearing her feet hit the ground with a loud clink. No pain. And she was standing, nearly ready for the day.

Tale was not a woman so enamoured with fashion that she'd take a lot of time to dress herself up. But, she wished she were, some days. And on those days, she had a small assortment of sashes and scarves which she liked to choose from. The most basic form of Kaolin cosmetics, a simple bolt of cloth tied here or there could lend that hint of care and prettiness she yearned for.

She sifted through her collection quickly. Today was definitely a yellow day, Tale thought to herself. And there was the one she wanted: Bright yellow with a small pattern on the edge.

Her small, dainty fingers tied it in a soft knot around her neck, letting it hang down behind her. She looked in her mirror. She looked good. Time to set out for the day.

Tale went to her door- unhandled, as all Kaolin doors were, and double hinged to open out both ways. When Others would ask them about that, often with concerns for safety or practicality, the Kaolin response was elegant and simple: "Why would You make something that had the chance to hurt You more complicated than it needed to be?" A door's presence already conveyed the desire of privacy. If the Others (or another Kaolin even, at times) were not respectful of that desire, then what good would a lock or a handle do?

Tale went to her door and softly pushed it open, stepping through. She felt the first few drops of rain land on her face, the first cool breeze caress the delicate curves of her body, the first footprint of soft earth give beneath her feet as she walked. She sighed a contented sigh, and began to hum an Ängsalvor tune, one of her favorites. Closing her eyes, she continued to trace the carefully measured steps to the edge of her household, as she did each morning before heading to the square.

She worked in a restaurant, serving people drinks and food just a hair slower than the others, but with much more grace and poise. It came naturally to a Kaolin to be so; Any undue haste could spell disaster quickly when Your body was so fragile. The Others could practice making calculated and precise movements, but a Kaolin had to live it.

In the distance, a small clap of thunder rumbled. Though she loved it, she hurried her steps just a small amount. It would be difficult to work if she got herself too wet, for drying herself off was very difficult.

She rounded the bend which led from her little one floor cottage to the main road of Fantas, the town it which she lived. Each step sounded with a smack of grasping mud now, the road slick with rain which had been falling for hours. To Tale, this reminded her of porridge, which she liked to play with before eating.

Smack, Smack, Smack.

Her footsteps were as regular as the ticking of a clock.

Smack, Smack, Smack.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Smack, Clop Clop, Smack, Clop Clop.

Just as she noticed something else was on the road, a runaway team of horses led a caravan wagon directly overtop of her. As she fell, she felt a brief but glorious surge of energy, as if for once she might be alright even though this was against all she had ever learned about herself.

And then, with her face in the mud, she felt the sharply intense pain of her left arm being crushed beneath the wagon's wheels. She could feel a scream building in her chest, but then stars were all around her, and everything went black.