I’m not an artist I’m a fucking work of art
"Yeah, yeah, and the rest," Jack muttered in response to her cursing, following after her and keeping his magic sharp for any errant thoughts or whispers as they travelled back down through the Fingers. Their footsteps would leave blood prints, but it was very unlikely that anyone would be around or care. Besides, within a few hours the tide would wash it all away. Soon the pathways became sand, and they opened up into a starlit sky.
"Or how about 'hey Jack, some cunts say they've got mageglass for tradin'. Given that you know a lot about the place where you were born, how likely is it that they're for real?' Somethin' like that?" He glared a hole in the back of her head. And maybe it was the lingering migraine, or the excitement of whatever had just happened, or the ridiculousness of her thoughts, but gods help him, Jack couldn't stop himself.
"The fuck do you mean, fly?"
"Or how about 'hey Jack, some cunts say they've got mageglass for tradin'. Given that you know a lot about the place where you were born, how likely is it that they're for real?' Somethin' like that?" He glared a hole in the back of her head. And maybe it was the lingering migraine, or the excitement of whatever had just happened, or the ridiculousness of her thoughts, but gods help him, Jack couldn't stop himself.
"The fuck do you mean, fly?"
