Umber

A servant and his mistress ruminate. (sab)

[In a dim room, accompanied by the sound of rain.]

A withered, bony finger idly stirs a pool of silvery liquid. Images glide over the surface, some bright, some dark, coming and going in no apparent order. A second figure, slim and lithe, sits quietly in a chair in the corner. Unlike the first, its posture speaks of sharpened awareness, sub-surface tension.

He speaks, as if resuming a conversation held for some time. “Draylin may yet prevail, mistress.”

“You know that she will not.”

“True.”

“They have grown powerful. And you, arrogant.”

“But they are still as nothing compared to my power. You know this.”

“I do. Even prepared, they cannot hope to destroy you. But still I feel that there is some factor…”

“Yes, the mysterious factor. Bah! We cannot guess at shadows. They have thwarted You in many ways, but in doing so have demonstrated the fullest extent of their powers. This knowledge is our power, we are ready! They will come, they will die…”

“Yes, yes, they will die, but not before destroying that which they mean to save. You have sung this song many times. I still say: Arrogance. Do not play with your food before you eat it.”

The figures face each other wearily, in the silence of an argument fought many times but never resolved.

[Rain, on a wooden roof. Fade to black.]