(no subject)
It's been -- weeks? months? days? a single day repeated over and over? -- since Fakir last came to Milliways. The weather of Goldkronedorf has been sunny and indeterminately warm, except twice when ominous clouds hovered over the clock tower just for the sake of variety. Mr. Cat has led lessons on pointe technique and pas de deux and demonstrated leaps and pirouettes and arm movements. Fakir is almost sure Mr. Cat gave exactly the same lesson six times in a row last week, and every dancer in the advanced class performed exactly the same way every time.
Nothing's happened since Fakir's last visit to the Bar. Nothing at all has happened, unless you count Duck being filthy and temporarily turning into a turtle. Mytho hasn't gotten any more heartshards. (Okay, so maybe that has something to do with Duck being a turtle.) The Raven has not invaded the town. Fakir practices the sword every morning at dawn, and he hasn't once been called upon to use it.
Every morning, Fakir wakes up and thinks, I'm still alive.
...What's going on?
The answer, not that Fakir knows it: somewhere in the great machine of Goldkronedorf, the gears are stuck tightly. But it won't be very long, now; someone's pulling a chain, and the machine is creaking, creaking, creaking--
For the moment, Fakir sits at a table in the bar, writing a paper on Swan Lake. (He could have sworn he got the same assignment ages ago.)
Nothing's happened since Fakir's last visit to the Bar. Nothing at all has happened, unless you count Duck being filthy and temporarily turning into a turtle. Mytho hasn't gotten any more heartshards. (Okay, so maybe that has something to do with Duck being a turtle.) The Raven has not invaded the town. Fakir practices the sword every morning at dawn, and he hasn't once been called upon to use it.
Every morning, Fakir wakes up and thinks, I'm still alive.
...What's going on?
The answer, not that Fakir knows it: somewhere in the great machine of Goldkronedorf, the gears are stuck tightly. But it won't be very long, now; someone's pulling a chain, and the machine is creaking, creaking, creaking--
For the moment, Fakir sits at a table in the bar, writing a paper on Swan Lake. (He could have sworn he got the same assignment ages ago.)