Lena
and sweetest in the gale is heard
and sore must be the storm
and sore must be the storm
Her eyes flickered over the older man, mostly trying to commit him to some form of memory. As for the flurry of questions, her gaze widened substantially, trying to parse them through her mind, hands still clutching paintbrush and lantern accordingly. Physically, she was fine. Mentally? Likely traumatized and in varying bouts of grief depending on the day. She’d yet to go see Falke about anything; figuring he was very busy with the latest string of anguish and despair. “I lost my sister in the attack,” she mentioned, and perhaps that would signify where her headspace for the present instant. Stare lingered downward, before slanting towards the bench again. “Ronin is leading. And I am painting a dragon, for Sera.”
He might’ve seen worse, but there was no comparison for Lena. Not when she’d lived here all her life, amongst the gardens and stones, in the halls and parlors of education and sagacity, where the Tower stood, tall and sturdy, across the horizon. Where people weren’t just massacred because they’d been innocent. “I didn’t see the assault. I was here. I think only Ronin and Abraham had been able to defend things.” At the first sound of blasts and hellfire, she’d ran towards the cacophony, but had been ultimately too late. “I only helped pull rubble and people out.”
He might’ve seen worse, but there was no comparison for Lena. Not when she’d lived here all her life, amongst the gardens and stones, in the halls and parlors of education and sagacity, where the Tower stood, tall and sturdy, across the horizon. Where people weren’t just massacred because they’d been innocent. “I didn’t see the assault. I was here. I think only Ronin and Abraham had been able to defend things.” At the first sound of blasts and hellfire, she’d ran towards the cacophony, but had been ultimately too late. “I only helped pull rubble and people out.”
that could abash the little bird
that kept so many warm
that kept so many warm
