Shinn builds her from out of uslang elm
and horse sinew,
a macabre form, having no name.
She escapes, across a field of geld-gulch,
careening and gesticulating towards town,
clattering feet atop Revatahl Road, damp cobblestones
laid by small hands whose mothers wept
for husbands drunk on the whores’ Mist.
Before the villagers watching aghast, Shinn pursues,
watched by an amused Oberlin, the Windsheet barkeep,
as the facsimile barrels past
headlong into the corner Shoppe of Tricks.
The exploding cacophony pales
before the brays of Oberlin’s plowing laughter
throughout the market square air.
Upon the wreckage Shinn stares,
cascaded over crushed baskets of plump linsin
and kasards folded from dried dole flowers,
a leg in paroxysm, tension in the main spring
drawing to an end.
“Wha’ she called, this one?” Oberlin howls.
Shinn whispers, “Daughter”
so none could hear.