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The arsewipes will insist on parting us, Justine, so must resort to this. Beneath us both, but needs must be our stern taskmaster. I railed and I ranted, all argle bargle, but to no avail. They even dared lock me in! The deaf needn't even bother to stop their ears but perhaps that serves His purposes when He squelches scum underfoot.
But us? Didn't expect it. He's changed, ain't He, since the silver hunt? (Actually quite more to your tastes, m'dear!) Cruel, yes, cruel and cold, sharper like your very favourite knives, twisty and tricksy and maybe doesn't mind anymore who sees it. Purified, yes. That must be it. I was impressed.
You'd think it would endear Him to us, the pure. Lodestone to lodestone. Surely as the dross has burned away, He should see your pure fire with clearer eyes. This fog is puzzling. All the chattering apes, the peacock, and others of that ilk, have drawn their trails of slime between His foot and our obeisances. Maybe even the bat, although I would have wagered sixty galleons He would have swatted her out of the air.
This waiting is tiresome. Hope the bed they've given you is better than the one they've given me (and mighty bloody cold it is without you to warm it).
And what they call whiskey I swear is no more than dragon piss.
Ah well. Draw aside your steel and leather petals for me, my silver one. I'll try to warm myself by imagining you dropping them.
One by one by one.
But us? Didn't expect it. He's changed, ain't He, since the silver hunt? (Actually quite more to your tastes, m'dear!) Cruel, yes, cruel and cold, sharper like your very favourite knives, twisty and tricksy and maybe doesn't mind anymore who sees it. Purified, yes. That must be it. I was impressed.
You'd think it would endear Him to us, the pure. Lodestone to lodestone. Surely as the dross has burned away, He should see your pure fire with clearer eyes. This fog is puzzling. All the chattering apes, the peacock, and others of that ilk, have drawn their trails of slime between His foot and our obeisances. Maybe even the bat, although I would have wagered sixty galleons He would have swatted her out of the air.
This waiting is tiresome. Hope the bed they've given you is better than the one they've given me (and mighty bloody cold it is without you to warm it).
And what they call whiskey I swear is no more than dragon piss.
Ah well. Draw aside your steel and leather petals for me, my silver one. I'll try to warm myself by imagining you dropping them.
One by one by one.