Whoa, you let your feet run wild
Time has come as we all go down
Zariah had been a master manipulator. If it were anyone else, he might have considered it a gift, encouraged the use of its finely honed edges. The Basin had employed a number of thieves, especially Hotaru and Rexanna, that had earned their reputation for such exploitations as well. Within Helovia, they’d thrived on it, plucking information out of fools, wielding their daggers and knives, crouching in upon shadow and darkness. But here, the Merciless had scorched and burned her bridges with the population, causing their own molten sedition and spread of derision – because she’d been fully capable of bending and swaying stories, knowledge, and offerings. The open forum had been evidence enough. Rexanna’s unfortunate coming and goings with the other woman had been another. “Just be careful. She is capable of much more.” Not that he considered Weaver a fool, but if they gave out enough warnings, enough foreboding tendencies, perhaps someone over in the frigid world would see her for what she was. Would have enough. Would take her down.
At her grin, the compliment rolling off his shoulders, he snorted, witnessing as embers were coiled away from his, and added to hers. He reinfused the denizens, posturing forth more and more where their brethren had been collected: the kindled, stoking fibers burning in mid-air. On notions of challenge, and perhaps deep parameters of mischief, he began honing the inferno into different shapes: at once it re-assembled into the honing of a blade (the Firesword; bits of nostalgia and heartache racing through), before letting it slide into other adornments. Some were makeshift firefalls, where the cinders cascaded off one another, and then to a giant, magnificent looking avian figure, renderings of the SparkBird.
At her grin, the compliment rolling off his shoulders, he snorted, witnessing as embers were coiled away from his, and added to hers. He reinfused the denizens, posturing forth more and more where their brethren had been collected: the kindled, stoking fibers burning in mid-air. On notions of challenge, and perhaps deep parameters of mischief, he began honing the inferno into different shapes: at once it re-assembled into the honing of a blade (the Firesword; bits of nostalgia and heartache racing through), before letting it slide into other adornments. Some were makeshift firefalls, where the cinders cascaded off one another, and then to a giant, magnificent looking avian figure, renderings of the SparkBird.
Yeah but for the fall—oh, my—
Do you dare to look them right in the eyes?
DEIMOS
