( Inevitably, word of mistress Hyang-Tai's rare, eerily welcome appearance spreads among children, first. Then, it stokes with local merchants, who interrupt their trade. At long last, the common people — some intrigued, a handful eager — begin to crowd. A minority remains superstitiously alert, holding their distance.
She comes barefoot and robed in rags, where her fellow witches of the fetters present themselves in lavish garments, despite the occasional signs of road and dust filth on their skins. They boast glistening heirloom jewellery that desperate men and women of the village have donated in exchange for their wicked services, betraying those who have approached them. Their hands are burdened by baskets brimming with either produce and baked goods, or with bundles of tightly coiled, hissing snakes that appear largely appeased, if not entirely dormant.
At mistress Hyang-Tai's command, the procession stops at a crossroad of possession, where the blind witch women dole out alms to madmen and the poor.
Hyang-Tai herself is a thin, short creature with milky eyes and plainly dimmed sight. Perhaps Beitang Moran simply wandered by, in the vicinity of the convoy, or perhaps he was purposefully drawn by the rumours of the crowd — it hardly matters, for Hyang-Tai at one turn stills and asks the man closer, whispering, reedy, as if her voice hails from deep, dark depths: )
You... I smell... blood on you. A fox. You killed a fox. So soon? Already. Already, you are a murderer.
→ BEITANG MORAN
( Inevitably, word of mistress Hyang-Tai's rare, eerily welcome appearance spreads among children, first. Then, it stokes with local merchants, who interrupt their trade. At long last, the common people — some intrigued, a handful eager — begin to crowd. A minority remains superstitiously alert, holding their distance.
She comes barefoot and robed in rags, where her fellow witches of the fetters present themselves in lavish garments, despite the occasional signs of road and dust filth on their skins. They boast glistening heirloom jewellery that desperate men and women of the village have donated in exchange for their wicked services, betraying those who have approached them. Their hands are burdened by baskets brimming with either produce and baked goods, or with bundles of tightly coiled, hissing snakes that appear largely appeased, if not entirely dormant.
At mistress Hyang-Tai's command, the procession stops at a crossroad of possession, where the blind witch women dole out alms to madmen and the poor.
Hyang-Tai herself is a thin, short creature with milky eyes and plainly dimmed sight. Perhaps Beitang Moran simply wandered by, in the vicinity of the convoy, or perhaps he was purposefully drawn by the rumours of the crowd — it hardly matters, for Hyang-Tai at one turn stills and asks the man closer, whispering, reedy, as if her voice hails from deep, dark depths: )
You... I smell... blood on you. A fox. You killed a fox. So soon? Already. Already, you are a murderer.