I had a dream of late, of a man who came to the village of my people. He appeared quiet, reserved, and shy. Within his possession was a silver pipe of which many proclaimed he would play the most angelic of music, and win the hearts of many a woman, and the regard of many men. A pipe he called his tongue.
I had not the fortune to see such a man. I first learned of him when someone from our village told me of his wonder, the lovely music, and his promises. She then disappeared yet no-one seemed overly concerned, except for me. One by one, the women of the village began to disappear, and still those that remained seemed unaware or flippant in their absence, until one returned. The first to disappear.
Battered, bruised, and broken. The light in their eyes taken. They spoke of betrayal and disgust, and of no one in particular. All were tainted in her eyes. All were party. Except me. To me she spoke freely of a man of selfish desires, and words that were like chains. Of the envy she had felt when she knew of others under his sway, and of the uncertainty in her heart. A woman of spirit and strength brought low, now shamed by her own. Yet when he returned to her and played his tune, she followed as she had before.
It would soon be my misfortune to meet this man, the man with the silver tongue. At a gathering of villagers, our paths did cross. At the meeting of our eyes, my bones did go cold. His presence made my skin crawl, yet I rationally considered my reaction foolhardy and presumptuous. I instead mingled with my fellow villagers, and an ever watchful eye.
I soon came to realise that he had become wary of me also. From then on, he would make efforts to avoid my presence, yet his presence I could still feel, ever watchful. It did come to my ears that he believed I did not care for him. Such a quick decision to make upon a first meeting, as I still did not know him enough to make such a call.
And then I heard him play, yet what I heard were not the notes of angels, but the clinking of chains, the sharpening of knives, and I saw the gleam in his eye, and the smirk barely hidden behind the pipe, and I knew, with a feeling of being hit in the guts, here was a warlock. An oath-breaker and deceiver. With a gift to beguile those around him, leading them to his will, his power.
Yet no-one would heed my warning, besotted as they were with him. I was turned upon by my own, ordered to leave. I pleaded with words that fell lifeless to the dirt, and still he played, the man with the silver tongue. Leading the people I loved to his will, and his fancy.
There is where my dream ends. The story is far from complete yet that is often how dreams are, fractured and unresolved.
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