who we are and all that we're trying to be
Notes and missives, drawn from one campaign to another, and not a battlefield in sight – the General drifted on the ethers of the sun’s disappearance, the letter stuffed into a pocket, marching down lanes and avenues, streets and corridors. Zuriel had opted not to come, accustomed to her place before the hearth, and the notion of hunger, of dinner, of home with the people, the companions, within it, ensured he’d like to make this a quick errand. It had its own machinations, recruitment for the Artisan’s Guild, small and minimal as it was, their little cluster of creations and contortions; so his pace was swift, his stride certain. He understood the nature of the request, of kilns and their necessities, especially for those working in the pottery field, and took no further time, efficient in his movements and motions, towards the location detailed in the scrawl. The Sword’s eyes focused on the refurbished shop, on thresholds, on apertures and doors, presuming he’d followed the directions in his precise manner, before knocking on entrance, announcing his presence in his usual poise; without a single word.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
