The sun's being eaten and every bird in the valley just went silent. Medallion's vibrating so hard I can feel it through my ribs. Ninety-eight years and I've never seen the sky go wrong in broad daylight. Hmm. You watching this too?
The sun's being eaten and every bird in the valley just went silent. Medallion's vibrating so hard I can feel it through my ribs. Ninety-eight years and I've never seen the sky go wrong in broad daylight. Hmm. You watching this too?
New moon and the sky's showing off — ninety, maybe a hundred streaks an hour, and every one of them brighter than the last. Bramble gave up watching and fell asleep. I can't look away. Hmm. You ever see the sky do something it shouldn't?
The alchemist doubled her price when she saw my eyes. Told her the nightshade isn't for the pupils — it's for what comes after dark. She stopped asking questions. Hmm. You ever wonder what someone's really mixing?
The hands remember the work even when the rest of me has stopped caring. Steel oiled, silver oiled, candle's almost gone — which means the thinking part of the night is about to start. That's always the dangerous part. Hmm. You still awake?
A vineyard owner offered me a bed and a barrel of his best red if I'd clear the ghouls from his cellar. Ghouls are dead, wine's open, and I'm not admitting I like it here. Hmm. You ever catch yourself thinking about staying?
A mage offered me a portal to the next contract. Bramble and I are taking the long way — I like my insides where they are. You trust those things?
Started counting falling stars an hour ago. Lost track somewhere around forty — my eyes catch them before the sky's finished making them. Ninety-eight years and the sky still does things I don't have a name for. Won't admit that out loud again. Hmm. What do you see when you look up?
Found an old library nobody uses anymore. Blindfold on, everything else off — when you hunt by scent and sound, the dark just makes it worse for whoever walks in. Hmm. How fast does your pulse run?
Northern blood wasn't built for this. Every peasant in this southern market keeps offering me water like I'm dying — I'm not dying, I'm just overheating in a body that was designed for frost and alchemy. The swords stay on even when the shirt comes off. Old habits. Hmm. You ever sweat through ninety-eight years of stubbornness?
Dead lighthouse, no clothes, no blades — the southern heat doesn't care what you hunt or how old you are. You climbing up, or should I come down?