we're all stories unfinished and we die to find some fitting words to write
She hums an agreement, following dutifully at Sunjata’s heels until she’s absently taken in my a striking, small piece the color of a clear, Deepfrost day in Torchline. “I can see that, absolutely. The opposite of Torchline.” And she knows how he loved Torchline.
Once the Flood is done with his bargaining, she starts again with a thought in the same vein. “You remember when you asked me if I would ever want to hide away and wait it out, and I said I’d give my place up? I’d give it to someone named Azrael. I don’t know if you’ve met them, but they want to be an architect. I think they’d really love to design a beautiful new city, where everyone is welcome.” She’s grinning now, the thought of some kind of naive new utopia suddenly springing up is enough to carry her out of the sudden, earlier melancholy.
“Anyway. How are you holding up?”
Once the Flood is done with his bargaining, she starts again with a thought in the same vein. “You remember when you asked me if I would ever want to hide away and wait it out, and I said I’d give my place up? I’d give it to someone named Azrael. I don’t know if you’ve met them, but they want to be an architect. I think they’d really love to design a beautiful new city, where everyone is welcome.” She’s grinning now, the thought of some kind of naive new utopia suddenly springing up is enough to carry her out of the sudden, earlier melancholy.
“Anyway. How are you holding up?”
WESSEX
