One might as
well harken unto the daffy old woman, L'acoci, and her crazy talk of
colors in the sky, as to speak of many differing colors among the skins
of men.
There was no other kind of human, except for the giants, and even these
spoke the same language as the rest of the human race, in spite of
their great difference in size. Even those with six fingers were not so
different as all that. Yet in spite of the fact that there was only one
race among men -which included the giants- there was hatred in almost
every heart, wickedness such as to compound every evil, and deliberate
mimicry of the savage wild beasts which roamed this wild primitive
world so overflowing with such indescribable natural beauty.
Si'Wren reached for the water skin, and fumbled as her fingers plucked
for it, and accidentally dropped it in the dirt. She reached down and
picked it up, ignoring the rough coating of caked-on mud which clung to
the bag as she raised it to her lips. The water ran freely out of the
bag's horn spout, it's mud coating wrinkling across the contracting,
silken wet goat skin, giving rise to many miniature ridges.
When she had drunk her full, she heedlessly hung the depleted goat skin
back on the stub of a knot-end on the tent pole upright, a small
axe-hewn sapling.
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