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Description
Atremble with alarm, Charmaine discovers that she is no longer alone. Lifting her hat's frilled brim, her face -- a comely face -- is revealed fully. Flawed only by discolored skin beneath her eyes, she possesses unquestionable beauty -- certain to burgeon with age. I suspect she avoids sleep, or wrangles with minor illness. The latter seems probable, what with her previous fit of coughing.

Her eyes are wide & blue & luster like cabochons in sunlight. For the longest moment she looks me over. I move inky locks from my face to the precipice of my shoulder. My fingernails are tawny & long -- fit for a sylvan inhabitant. Frayed silk & bedraggled boots attest to my bygone affluence. My skin is copper & out of place on the mainland. My eyes, my eerily prepossessing eyes, are marigold with slits for pupils.

At some point I expect her to experience revulsion -- a look of out and out distaste.

On the contrary.

There's a transformation, plainly evident in her features. From apprehension to fascination, she beholds me with a look of unshakeable wonderment.

I try to comport myself cordially -- as mannerly as a cultured gent -- though I'm not in the habit of interacting with others on amiable terms. Human encounters tend to involve bloodletting & grisly satiation; social customs, therefore, are irrelevant.

In a torrential downpour, messy hair shrouds my dark face as I bow. "…You shoulde not be affraied anymore to-niht." I announce, my voice coarse from months of disuse.

Awkwardly, I rise from the nethermost point of my bow.

With amplified fascination, Charmaine seems to find my voice thrillingly curious. I speak with an amalgamated dialect, i.e., a collection of speech patterns from different eras. The evolution of words & pronunciation proper to the current time requires adaptation & prolonged exposure to mortals. Alas, I'm not often among them long enough for formal conversation.

"And how shall I trust a stranger?" Charmaine queries, still noticeably intrigued.
"Impressiouns are alle that we ha'e whan dealing with strangiers." I return assuredly. "They bifalle naturally, like lea-florets, or propagatinge dendelyouns, whan expos'd to a giv'n persone."
"Maybe -- I don't know ..." Her voice tapers slightly, this from deciphering my abnormal speaking manner.
"Truste rests on your percepcioun." I add, leaving her to decide.

Shaking her head, she dispels the topic. "What is the stranger's name?"

"Corvine." I say succinctly, giving a name I took on some decades ago for its relation to a bird -- a crow -- whose look I quite like.

"It's odd…" Charmaine decides, & after some addlepated delay, she continues with: "Yes, very strange. I say, I want the pleasure of walking with you tonight. I have met no one with your… look. Never. I don't care a bit that you're in old dunnage1, or that your skin is bronze, or your eyes peculiar."

Unexpectedly, she offers the crook of her arm. Our arms soon interweave -- mine hesitantly. We're arm-in-arm, she & I. Her body -- full of blood -- radiates warmth & youthful vivacity. Her breaths -- warm in autumnal air -- are visible. Mine are not. At first I am motionless. She smiles at me, unassumingly cute. My eyes gravitate, as a matter of intrinsic inclination, to her neck…

1. Dunnage: Clothes.

Description
Atremble with alarm, Charmaine discovers that she is no longer alone. Lifting her hat's frilled brim, her face -- a comely face -- is revealed fully. Flawed only by discolored skin beneath her eyes, she possesses unquestionable beauty -- certain to burgeon with age. I suspect she avoids sleep, or wrangles with minor illness. The latter seems probable, what with her previous fit of coughing.

Her eyes are wide & blue & luster like cabochons in sunlight. For the longest moment she looks me over. I move inky locks from my face to the precipice of my shoulder. My fingernails are tawny & long -- fit for a sylvan inhabitant. Frayed silk & bedraggled boots attest to my bygone affluence. My skin is copper & out of place on the mainland. My eyes, my eerily prepossessing eyes, are marigold with slits for pupils.

At some point I expect her to experience revulsion -- a look of out and out distaste.

On the contrary.

There's a transformation, plainly evident in her features. From apprehension to fascination, she beholds me with a look of unshakeable wonderment.

I try to comport myself cordially -- as mannerly as a cultured gent -- though I'm not in the habit of interacting with others on amiable terms. Human encounters tend to involve bloodletting & grisly satiation; social customs, therefore, are irrelevant.

In a torrential downpour, messy hair shrouds my dark face as I bow. "…You shoulde not be affraied anymore to-niht." I announce, my voice coarse from months of disuse.

Awkwardly, I rise from the nethermost point of my bow.

With amplified fascination, Charmaine seems to find my voice thrillingly curious. I speak with an amalgamated dialect, i.e., a collection of speech patterns from different eras. The evolution of words & pronunciation proper to the current time requires adaptation & prolonged exposure to mortals. Alas, I'm not often among them long enough for formal conversation.

"And how shall I trust a stranger?" Charmaine queries, still noticeably intrigued.
"Impressiouns are alle that we ha'e whan dealing with strangiers." I return assuredly. "They bifalle naturally, like lea-florets, or propagatinge dendelyouns, whan expos'd to a giv'n persone."
"Maybe -- I don't know ..." Her voice tapers slightly, this from deciphering my abnormal speaking manner.
"Truste rests on your percepcioun." I add, leaving her to decide.

Shaking her head, she dispels the topic. "What is the stranger's name?"

"Corvine." I say succinctly, giving a name I took on some decades ago for its relation to a bird -- a crow -- whose look I quite like.

"It's odd…" Charmaine decides, & after some addlepated delay, she continues with: "Yes, very strange. I say, I want the pleasure of walking with you tonight. I have met no one with your… look. Never. I don't care a bit that you're in old dunnage1, or that your skin is bronze, or your eyes peculiar."

Unexpectedly, she offers the crook of her arm. Our arms soon interweave -- mine hesitantly. We're arm-in-arm, she & I. Her body -- full of blood -- radiates warmth & youthful vivacity. Her breaths -- warm in autumnal air -- are visible. Mine are not. At first I am motionless. She smiles at me, unassumingly cute. My eyes gravitate, as a matter of intrinsic inclination, to her neck…

1. Dunnage: Clothes.