Embers burn within my chest,
mistaking me for something less,
believing me to hold excess
relief somewhere outside my quest.
Acceptable as one might find this feeling,
crushing is it to me, whilst all is sealing
embers burning, within my chest, help me now, my last request.
Tail left, tail right
On my arm you lay your head
Gifting me with eyes so bright
Ending hunger by stealing my bread
Truth be told, I’m not as mad
Hound, I should be, because that’s bad
Enduring you, this lovely warm fluff
Rescued me you did, but my love’s still tough
The attack party blocked the way into the nothingness, waiting for the moment he approached.
Their helmets shone gold, shaped as skulls that completely covered their domes. Silver scaled bucklers that attached to each of their forearms blocked all of their torsos completely. Thick robes to keep out the sands hung down in lavenders and midnight blues down to leather boots.
The scimitars in their other hands did not gleam. They were already dull. Filthy, but not with fresh blood. With old blood. Old blood with no time to clean it off before reaching this location.
They were to attack, but waited at their point of arrival as he came to stop them.
He stood no chance.
For some reason, my hands get cold first.
I find it strange, because when I’m typing my hands are the most active part of me. I would think my feet would get cold first. Especially when I’m not wearing any socks. But no. It is always my fingers, creeping down to the palms of my hands.
It has to do with the weather. Never occurs in the summer. Then again, there is no part of me that likes the summer heat. Yet I suppose I always forget during the summer that when things finally start to cool, my hands will be the first victims of winter.
Gloves that get in the way of my writing? I’m not sure why it slows me down so much.
While I rejoice the cold in many other ways, I must prepare once more to deal with my hands. My hands which for some reason are cold blooded.
The palace wavered, but that was nothing new. The columns moving back and forth, tilting one way and then another, was how this place had always been known for. Silver towers adorned with white spires.
It was a very vertical place.
Mai didn’t like it. She didn’t care what other people claimed. It all looked ready to fall over, as if someone was trying to balance a match on its head. This was not the type of place that she wanted to leave her charge, not for any amount of time.
Zlhna’s dark eyes were wide as she stared up at it.
Mai couldn’t protect Zlhna against a building. A building had no blood to stop. A building had no desires. A building would just follow the whims of the earth.
“We aren’t stopping here.”
“Oh, but Mai. We must.”
Unclenching her muscles, Mai followed her mistress into the danger. As she always did.
They sat at the end of the pier, feet dangling off the end. Underneath them was the grand drop into vast sands. A red and gold world which stretched out before them. Because of this, they had covered their blue eyes with large leather goggles, protecting them completely. Lips and nose were covered by their green neckerchief.
“The caravan not here yet?”
They didn’t turn around at his words, waving at the empty space ahead of both of them. “Nope.”
He sat down next to them, but didn’t look down. His face was covered similarly. It made them hot to look at him, despite wearing the same things. “They’ll show up soon, Mic.”
They snorted, but didn’t say anything more. There wasn’t a point.
The two friends waited.
“What’s the difference between flamboyant and colourful?”
“All letters except two of them.”
With a nod, she returned to her paper.