There are murmurs of agreement, sighs of longing from the ring of youngsters seated on the stony floor at the feet of their teacher and teller of tales. They gaze upwards with pale and emptied orbs at the spot from where his voice emanates.
Tall for his age and as thin as every other member of The Clan, the clever lad interrupts again, “In’t there ’nother meaning for ‘ize’?”
To get past this strange and uncomfortable topic, he quickly explains, “A course, it be ta blinkers in your noggins where ta tears leak out and, accordin’ to miths and ligends, what ancients used for sight magic to see ta color a things and not just the pitchy dark of the Blankness.”