Contemplating murder on a grand scale, the intimation of certain machinations dissolves into a conversation between conspirators. Past the parlay and word-play, the sword laid on temple skulls thrusts heartily into hearts with speed, shattering only after hours of tempered use and feverish flicking. Cut into the sternum of an eclectic sorcerer turned jail-bird is the city map in ink, a noble truth projected in bitter black and jets of coolant. Droplets of thinned blood dribbled on his thumb from the nagging and pricking, never sure of whether the wound will cease or whether being deceased was in his immediate prophecy.
With chrome sparks flying from within the din of a pockmarked cave dimly lit, the grim yet wizened smith bashes crude metals into refined tools and weapons of war, chucking the products over a cliff-edge reached by path, for reasons known only to those who stand directly below his trajectory and receive his artistan-crafts directly to the cranium. Compact, practical muscles rustle atop bones and subcutaneous fat, masking the worker's body in a layer of intimidation, when in truth his listless eyes betray a desire for more than forming unused tools, wishing to fashion fragile toys for the children in the nearby village.
It'd be easier to write more if it wasn't late and I wasn't exhausted.
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