broadcast mind.
Burnished metal and electricity, oh, there's a stormcloud coming in from the east, dark belly low as a pregnant cow. The wind whips up the golden strands of your hair and smells of rain and smoke. You're a little drunk, woozy with vertigo and the wineskin you had shared earlier with a terrified stable-boy, mouth-crinkling sour and red, setting in stone a taste that will last a lifetime.
You keep your back to the door behind you. It's a tricky thing, and through the curling haze that never quite seems to drift through it you see the view from the roof of a different building, a clockwork city at dusk, heavy snowflakes already beginning to turn everything white. It frames you, as you look out over a castle already built from pale stone, that knows nothing of snow and Mist. From this height you can see the fires on the outskirts of the city.
Behind you, a young woman's voice calls your name, clear as a bell, chiming across the distance between worlds. Your fingers dig into the rough hewn stone of the parapet.
It's cold. Your cloak and jacket are some of the finest-quality garments you've ever owned, and still the chill nips playfully at your fingertips and the end of your nose. There are others worse off, carving shelters out of rags and snowdrifts and huddling there until they die. Some of the more enterprising have attempted to rebuild their homes, while others knock desperately at the doors of any still standing.
But there are tireless men and women here, who can do impossible things, and together you push back winter's baleful hold on the city. Silver eyes and room enough for those who need it. Green hair and a bowl of broth. Strong hands with a purse for a widow. Sunlight streaming warm from the tip of a stick of wood.
At night, two bodies coccooned together, and it's a fire in the hearth, a warmth in your chest spreading outwards, a conflagration.
( And when you're in the ruins with snow squeaking under your heavy boots, a man's voice says urgently, Sire, Sire. Come at once. )
The blaze springs up, a rush of heat over soot-blackened cheeks, and you could be anybody as you pass a bucket from the man behind you to the one in front. No title, no responsibilities, just sweat streaking patterns down your face and the roar of the flames.
Later gentle hands press ice to your burns and you hiss. The metal of your armor has warped with the heat, and you're not sure, if you take it off, that you'll be able to put it back on again. But it's taken from you anyway, slowly, barely noticable, piece by painful piece.
Through the window, the shape of a dragon, silhouetted against the moon.
You keep your back to the door behind you. It's a tricky thing, and through the curling haze that never quite seems to drift through it you see the view from the roof of a different building, a clockwork city at dusk, heavy snowflakes already beginning to turn everything white. It frames you, as you look out over a castle already built from pale stone, that knows nothing of snow and Mist. From this height you can see the fires on the outskirts of the city.
Behind you, a young woman's voice calls your name, clear as a bell, chiming across the distance between worlds. Your fingers dig into the rough hewn stone of the parapet.
It's cold. Your cloak and jacket are some of the finest-quality garments you've ever owned, and still the chill nips playfully at your fingertips and the end of your nose. There are others worse off, carving shelters out of rags and snowdrifts and huddling there until they die. Some of the more enterprising have attempted to rebuild their homes, while others knock desperately at the doors of any still standing.
But there are tireless men and women here, who can do impossible things, and together you push back winter's baleful hold on the city. Silver eyes and room enough for those who need it. Green hair and a bowl of broth. Strong hands with a purse for a widow. Sunlight streaming warm from the tip of a stick of wood.
At night, two bodies coccooned together, and it's a fire in the hearth, a warmth in your chest spreading outwards, a conflagration.
( And when you're in the ruins with snow squeaking under your heavy boots, a man's voice says urgently, Sire, Sire. Come at once. )
The blaze springs up, a rush of heat over soot-blackened cheeks, and you could be anybody as you pass a bucket from the man behind you to the one in front. No title, no responsibilities, just sweat streaking patterns down your face and the roar of the flames.
Later gentle hands press ice to your burns and you hiss. The metal of your armor has warped with the heat, and you're not sure, if you take it off, that you'll be able to put it back on again. But it's taken from you anyway, slowly, barely noticable, piece by painful piece.
Through the window, the shape of a dragon, silhouetted against the moon.