The fog rose and a dragon came.
[Isley's voice accompanies the gentle click of his Forge as he turns it on, the gears humming internally, a soft whir of noise that is barely audible against the brush of wind across the speakers. The sword he normally carries at his hip is driven into the earth; he rests his back against the blade and in his lap
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[She's perched on the roofs again. This one is a mite higher then her last sleeping spot though-and she's noticeably holding a bag in her hand. Like a candy bag, but cruder.]
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[Isley observes Miata...with detached focus.]
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[She tilts her head. It wasn't a happy story, was it?]
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[His expression doesn't change, not even by a hair.]
It seemed appropriate, however. Much of what has transpired is like something out of a story.
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Maybe it is a story.
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Maybe it is. I suppose that means it will end eventually.
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Everything ends.
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[The neutrality shifted into a smile, and shifts now again into something resembling calm consideration.]
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So maybe we will die? Or go home.
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[And Anatole has a way of changing the rules. The dead don't stay dead here.]
Maybe. For some of us there is no going back, though.
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