Iskra
If I could just lay my head down and rest
If there was nothing to fight or protect
If there was nothing to fight or protect
As the flame tears through the trench with ribbons of golden teeth and hot breath, the residual armaments crumble to ash and the snow melts. It's this fresh wet that leeches into the ground, rapid and welling with a muddy layer that softens the structure use to rime. He frowns at the clear sag of the ground, and sighs thereafter, glancing about for some tools. "One problem gone, another arises," he gripes, and finds that ground work is rather like trying to hunt out every ningo from the city, a game of whackamole.
"I'm going to pack the trench sides with a shovel," he informs her, hoisting himself out of the ditch and grabbing one of the tools they'd carted here for the job. Jumping back down into the crevice, shovel in hand, he tests the looser areas and firms them up as if he's back at the tower laying bricks. He carves underfoot with the shovel, bringing up new dirt, and packs it along the stides with the mud from the melted snow and a hefty slap of his shovel, patting in the grout of the ground. The moisture ought to keep it, and the strength should seat particles into the gaps, adding new stability.
Iskra uses a shiovel to pack the sides
"I'm going to pack the trench sides with a shovel," he informs her, hoisting himself out of the ditch and grabbing one of the tools they'd carted here for the job. Jumping back down into the crevice, shovel in hand, he tests the looser areas and firms them up as if he's back at the tower laying bricks. He carves underfoot with the shovel, bringing up new dirt, and packs it along the stides with the mud from the melted snow and a hefty slap of his shovel, patting in the grout of the ground. The moisture ought to keep it, and the strength should seat particles into the gaps, adding new stability.
Iskra uses a shiovel to pack the sides
Maybe then I could finally be free
Maybe death is like falling asleep
Maybe death is like falling asleep
