Don't paint wonderful lies on me that wash away
Darkness had fallen over the guild hall. Whether it was late or growing early was difficult to tell, for the only light that made its way in through the narrow windows high on the walls was refracted from starlight. Outside, the temperature would finally have fallen to something rather tolerable, but beneath the ground within the thick walls of stone, it was cold.
Too cold. During no season should frost be creeping along the floorboards and up the walls, least of all LongHeat. Yet still it spread, flowering in patterns of leaf and fern, feathering and sprouting across table tops and bookshelves, threatening the health of the books that rested there. The air in the room had become biting, little different from a Halo eve; glittering particals of ice drifted on silent eddies. At some point during the night a log had been thrown on the hearth and a fire set to light the room, but the embers were faltering now, hissing and popping in fierce protest to the preternatural chill.
It could all be traced back to the girl that sat curled up on a chair by the big table. There were books and scrolls, papers and pens littering the surface before her, but it was a long time since her hands had stopped working. Wrapped in her black shawl, she had kicked off her shoes and pulled bare feet up beneath her on the seat, and the eyes that stared into the dark corners of the room were red-rimmed and swollen. She had been crying.
The teacup that cradled between her hands looked quite forgotten. It's contents were frozen solid.
Too cold. During no season should frost be creeping along the floorboards and up the walls, least of all LongHeat. Yet still it spread, flowering in patterns of leaf and fern, feathering and sprouting across table tops and bookshelves, threatening the health of the books that rested there. The air in the room had become biting, little different from a Halo eve; glittering particals of ice drifted on silent eddies. At some point during the night a log had been thrown on the hearth and a fire set to light the room, but the embers were faltering now, hissing and popping in fierce protest to the preternatural chill.
It could all be traced back to the girl that sat curled up on a chair by the big table. There were books and scrolls, papers and pens littering the surface before her, but it was a long time since her hands had stopped working. Wrapped in her black shawl, she had kicked off her shoes and pulled bare feet up beneath her on the seat, and the eyes that stared into the dark corners of the room were red-rimmed and swollen. She had been crying.
The teacup that cradled between her hands looked quite forgotten. It's contents were frozen solid.
