"Cé hé tusa?," A deep voice called out behind Cierra. Spinning around she saw an old man, leaning on club shaped cane, long white beard stretching to his knees, reminding Cierra of the Spanish moss she had seen on a trip to Louisiana once, that hung down from trees twisted like lightning bolts. His eyes were grey blue, like a storm over a distant sea, and his hands and face were sharp and boney, as if he had lost all the extra fat that may have once softened his features.
"Um," Cierra wasn't sure what to say, "Goldie sent us? She said someone would be expecting us?" She motioned to Cid as she spoke, "She said," Cierra racked her brain to remember the word as the old man simply stared her down, "Dagda?"
"'Oldie?," The old man thought back for a moment and then cracked a smile, "Dat what dey callin' 'er dese days?"
