'ᴡᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴇ ᴀ ꜱᴇɴᴛɪᴍᴇɴᴛ. ɪ ᴄᴀɴ ʙᴇ ʙᴏᴜɢʜᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴠᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇ.'
Only one month has passed in Daliah Viper's life trying to reintegrate at court and follow the uneasy trails her eyes have caught.
One month filled with blood, tribulations, and l...
-any of the filamentous bands of tissue that connect parts of the nervous system with the other organs, conduct nerve impulses, and are made up of axons and dendrites together with protective and supportive structures
-power of endurance or control :fortitude, strength
-assurance, boldness: also: presumptuous audacity
-a sore or sensitive point
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My heart pulses with the beating wings of the seagull. The rhythm is strong and keeping a balanced, steady pace.
If you get to choose if you want to fight a seagull or a crow, I would advise to choose wisely. Crows may be smart, and they serve an aesthetic that some presumptuous girl in the care of feathers may appreciate. But the fat, grey seagull above serves the purpose as well. It may even serve the purpose better. The hawk was a valuable asset, it was a trained and readied beast. But the seagull is one of many above the rooftops of harbor bay. It strides through the air with the same greed and hunger, and it will never be satisfied.
That and the amount of shit it thereby produces, coupled in those light colors basically makes it just the animal counterfeit of some people I know well. Sadly, a seagull is not venomous, and it induces less fear in me.
But, that is not to dismiss, a seagull has a surprisingly good perception too, and as it shrieks and calls, falling through a ceiling of smoke.
I'm a spectator of sorts, as it flings itself lower, catching commotion on the road and watching violence and commotion unfold.
Above the hill, the building that stood silent and resilient for shackling and acquiring control over the population, a security center, is ruined now. That much has been told.
I bite my tongue hard to stop the sharp comments from spilling over it, continue to rip into my cheek. What did I say about reinforcing the building? But no, I guess, make a trap convincing, a fortified building would have been no good. And it would have denied to take the glory of the pot, to take the head himself.
When I turn around, nothing has changed.
Everyone is still in their hiding positions, my cousin is still breathing on my neck.
The dead young man on the rope still dangles, and his face slowly has started to lose and warp form, not too much, as he is still fresh, but it has started. The decay.
It seems that no matter if red, silver, or else, we die and rot the same way.
I can't stare at the corpse for too long, only the most decent and needed amount of a few grazing seconds.
"The targets on the road," I susurrate, a comment as if I watch a threatre play unfold in birds eyes. One glimpse of dirtied, dazed bodies running, flying through the air. Silver, red , and whatever you want to call the Barrows. Anomalies, defected, New Blood. "Look mostly unharmed."
