Stories have a habit of changing every time they're told. The more personal, the more chameleon in its form and meaning, each word touched by the past, present, and future.
Last Night asked for stories because they were, more than anything else, glimpses not just into lives but into thoughts and feelings, built up by context. A simple touch could give her images, snatches of memory and feeling, but stories were different--more amorphous but they said something important about the teller. To see another's memories spoke of events passed, but the context, the history and meaning that she chose to construct, belonged to her--it was only through her filter that these images passed. A story, however, belonged to both teller and audience.
She spun a simple web while the other doe spoke, letting the lull of the words lead her in her craft. In this form, the words washed over her--she had a spider's instincts here, the story going fuzzy in the space between her soul and her mind.
Last Night finished as Carrion did, a large web hanging between the branches of two mangrove trees.
For a nebulous second, Last Night seemed to become everything and nothing, an uncertain sight for Carrion's eyes--and then she was mare standing tall before the web. Carrion, small, but kind, with death's face, but life's heart, stood with her heart fluttering, hoping that the story had been enough. Though Last Night's six eyes did not seem to judge, she was still nervous.
Finally, Last Night turned and lifted the web from the branches with her antlers. She laid the delicate web across Carrion's back before speaking, "May your children find kindness in the world and know that beauty is in everything."