A friend once asked me what they were missing. I replied in a series of 1-2 sentence vignettes from my world. They said it was like I had actually been there, personally experiencing all the sights, sounds, tastes, and smells Best compliment ever.
The taste of a frosted peach on a hot summer’s eve while listening to the wysps buzz amongst the flowers.
The smell of freshly baked loaves being pulled from an oven, glazed with autumn honey and dusted with ground spicenut.
The subtle shades of ink tattooed to the neck, denoting the identity of a slave’s household.
The guttural speech of two vocanei greeting each other, while their mistresses talk gossip in the market.
The acrid smell from the funery pyres at the temple the of Neithur when the wind shifts.
The glint of sunlight off the golden ringed armour worn by the High Nobles’ elite guard.
The sucking squelch of clay blocks being cut from the flooded banks of the Untaltar, for shipment to the potters down stream.
The clang of hammers forging the red-steel blades in the High Nobles’ private armoury.
The taste of the salty mustard favoured by the hill-folk from the western foothills.
The fragrant breeze blowing from the orchards of spring.
The sonorous chanting from a procession of priests walking through the city on Cothur’s day.
The sparkle of light refracting through the fountain spray in the gardens of Seadeiadur’s wealthier citizens.
The soft pelt of a roan vocanei nuzzling for a treat from his master’s hand.
The ruins of Apeigadun “City of Tears” along the Southern caravan route. The eyes if it’s few wary denizens watching as you walk along side the wagons. People with almost nothing stare as a lifetime of wealth rolls past in wagons drawn by hardy rabbox.
The shrill cry of night stei hunting along the dunes, outside the circle of your campfire’s light.
The crunch of the scaled earth in the salt flats stretching to the horizon, beyond which lay the ruins of Siladun fabled home of the Goddess Silat herself.
A soft “pffft”, the only warning of a triggered puff rod cacti reacting to being brushed.
The musical trundle of cart wheels along the stone bricked streets during the morning arrivals at the opening of the daily market.
The rainbow of silk shirts on the crew manning the Ru-pani fishing boats docked at the wharf.
The exotic look of a tall red-haired slave, standing a full head taller than the others on the block. Broad shoulders reddened by the sun unfamiliar on the islands of Iskander, from which he came.
The light jingle of tiny silver bells adorning the hair sticks retaining the night black curls of a noble lady’s hair.
The hungry stare of street orphans, watching for apples falling from carts and stalls in the market bustle.
The warm fragrant waft from a cup of fruit sai, held in your fingers on a chill morning.
This is Waejir.
