[ She singes. Of women who would have their way, this is their instinct: jaw tight, tongue sharpened, their ache coiled and turned hard-tipped against you. He bars her path. So be it, arm strong and his sword held high, a wall raised amid stench of molten plaster and burning curtain velvets, of flesh shrivelled and the wails of the dead who remember enough of their humanity to yield animal sounds.
He flinches only once when a fright-stricken guest of the fete draws his axe out and rushes past, to meet a howled end at the claws of the incoming dead. Crossfire: so many of them have meddled and mingled in the ill-lit corridor that they assault one another without test or inspiration. ]
Weapons — [ And the grit of his teeth, grip on the hilt of her, Bichen< his soul fractioned — ] Can yet be recovered. Substituted.
[ Hypocrisy drenches him. Would he not turn for Bichen, were the blade lost to him, once again, thereafter? Irrelevant. This girl's instrument might house her affection — but it need not cost her life. ]
no subject
He flinches only once when a fright-stricken guest of the fete draws his axe out and rushes past, to meet a howled end at the claws of the incoming dead. Crossfire: so many of them have meddled and mingled in the ill-lit corridor that they assault one another without test or inspiration. ]
Weapons — [ And the grit of his teeth, grip on the hilt of her, Bichen< his soul fractioned — ] Can yet be recovered. Substituted.
[ Hypocrisy drenches him. Would he not turn for Bichen, were the blade lost to him, once again, thereafter? Irrelevant. This girl's instrument might house her affection — but it need not cost her life. ]
You cannot go alone.