there’s smoke and steam, —— SNOW FALLS LIKE COMETS, ( CASTLE BLACK ) the bittersweet numbing swells dead skin on his bruised fingertips, [GRIT YOUR TEETH] this frigid morning breeze seizes his lips like a spurned paramour, the rasp of a blunted blade forged through scalding blooms of steel cuts through a sea of pure white, bared like teeth against it’s fleshy suitor. THE COURTYARD RANG & RANG, until wool blacker than night sweltered into thread and icily sweat, ❛❛ ENOUGH! moment longer and skywalker would have CRATERED YOUR SKULL, aurochs. how any of you hope to DEFEND THE REALM when you can’t match swords with a slave is a wonder. ❜❜ THE DARK MIST SPILLS FROM THORNE’S MOUTH, like a festering blight exhumed from a pungent corpse; his jet leathers whisper like a shy maid in the aftermath of a swift turn, directing that black ruin of a grin to [ LORD SNOW. ]
❛❛ THE BASTARD, — now he looks right & ready, doesn’t he? i wager this little savage might just tip your crown, lord snow. ❜❜ he nurses each word of contempt like a ragged wineskin — JON SNOW DREW HIS LONGSWORD, the blade becoming a callous extension of hardened flesh cauterized into a black metal; HE WOULD GO TO SLEEP BRUISED & BLOODY. [ @jediance ] IF IT MEANT CLEANSING THE CURVE LIPPED DELIGHT FROM SER ALLISER THORNE’S MOUTH. the explosion of white continued over them, a hurtling mass the shade of the moon that braced starkly in the careening sunlight: ...
— he lunged.
