@upfloatingmoon
she has been wandering too much, lately. it is hard to sit still. beneath her skin her magic hums and shifts like a restless beast and she has noticed those around her using just one or two more spells, or bearing a gleaming new weapon at their hip, and it is--throwing her off. psychosomatic, certainly, but the symptoms are jarring enough to send her roaming the streets of spirale, looking for--
see, it’s like this. magic wells up and spills over and floods. parley is a finite thing and she is very steadily becoming waterlogged, capsizing, going under. her fingers tremble and the corners of her vision are clouded with stars and her thoughts catch and tangle and disappear. she is desperate for an outlet, going wild for the want of it.
but the best she has found is an open-air theatre, all carved stone and creeping vines, and she has taken centre stage for an audience of no one. incantations sound like strange poetry if you say them right, line and verse decorated with a language that sounds like spitting flame, and she has gone from praying that the words will conjure something to putting on a show. there’s no one here to see, after all. why not waste the day like this?
