Close behind the ostriches came Si'Wren, riding on her magnificent
black stallion, which, not having been gelded, was, in the hands of any
but Si'Wren, about as controllable as a wild cat on the scent of blood.
The contrasting light as he constantly moved cast his black coat with a
rippling purple-black sheen of dark hues.
Many called out as Si'Wren rode past them, and she rode aloofly,
nodding to whoever seemed dignified enough to merit it, and
infrequently waved back when others waved first. Clearly, many of her
would-be admirers knew nothing of her scandalous reputation as an
idol-breaker.
Bound by her oath of silence, she might as well have been one of those
pathetic, pitiable lunatics who constantly drooled and were ofttimes
possessed, and were either utterly as speechless as idiots, or spoke
the language of the moon, isolated in the midst of all.
She knew that it was really demons which afflicted the minds of men,
and not the moon. However, lunatic or no, she followed the calling of a
different god, and felt as one moonstruck in broad daylight. It was an
odd sensation which persisted steadfast, that somehow she no longer
spoke, spiritually in her heart, the same language as they who
worshiped wood and stone.
Her head elevated above the multitudes, Si'Wren pretended not to notice
as more than a few openly ogled her.
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