The walls (when we reached them) were ashes and mist. They fell to powder at the touch of our weapons. (the dead fled at our coming) (My blade is a line scribing lines before me. The old man's fingers move in a gesture of Power. (the boy makes a warding, a guarding, alert that the master has begun to combine Synchrony and Symmetry) The master fades, flickers, and firms. His feet move lightly as he glances the blade around and back, carving verse on the belly of Night. (My blade is a line scribing lines before me. Bravely, intently, the student watches, wary, waiting. His eyes move slightly as he glances the blade back and around. (My blade is a line scribing lines before me. Out of Mist and Ashes they build their Walls, and fill them with the ghosts of their Dead. |