Despair:
Was dust. Everywhere. On our tongues and in our eyes and beneath the skin, working its way into our blood.
It was who we were, what we were. We belonged to it and it to us. The stone would not accept us when we died. We would simply turn to dust.
I used to lie awake at night and imagine that the little pieces that I was made of would simply drift apart, my body dissipating, turning to dust and floating away on the whim of a breath.
During the day I was a fist, bruising and bloodying other dusters, threatening and killing. But during the night when Rica stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry, I wanted to die.
And yet somehow I found life.
And here I am now in a land that sings of it, green and verdant and vibrant. There are pools of water and it rains (that's when water falls from the sky of all things!) often. When we slay darkspawn, which is frequent, the ground almost rises up to absorb them, to take their blood and turn it into this overwhelming green burst of life.
The swamp witch understands. She does not find it strange that I need to touch everything, run my fingers along the mossy backsides of trees and through the dewy grass. I need to center myself in this alien place, find some pattern in it, some path.
Ancestors, no one ever told me the surface would be so beautiful!
I want to dance with the thrumming joy of it, to stamp my feet and trample down the strange springy grass just to see it rise again when I move. The ground is soft beneath my leather boots and seems to bend and spring up as my steps rise and fall.
To one side of me is the swamp witch. Where I come from she would be a queen, so regal with those predatory eyes, always glimmering, always watching. And her clothing, shabby and revealing, it barely covers her breasts but she wears it like it was a gown of the finest surfacer's silk. Her tribal beads might be the finest rubies for the way she holds her head above them, chin high in defiance.
On the other side is the knight in shining armor. I once had a book of human fairy tales, and always there was a blond knight in metal armor that glistened in the sun. The knight would open doors for ladies and bow and say courtly romantic things and rescue the damsel every time.
Except the knight needed rescuing too, and in the end we were both saved by a crazy old witch woman. How, I have no idea. Except that her powers must be far more extensive and dangerous than I first guessed.
And my knight in shining armor is not so shining, his armor tarnished and stained with dark sticky blood. His eyes are downcast and his feet shuffle listlessly, even his blonde hair seems subdued. I touch his arm and he smiles at me, a lost little smile that holds no happiness or affection. The swamp witch rolls her eyes and we continue onward, the witch, the knight, and the filthy duster, through this moist and verdant jungle.