brush of shadow across tatami
whisper of steel
crimson constellations
useless nostalgia. when persons of singular grace and purpose forged history. half-seen forms of smoke in the fog, flitting about the rooftops, the glittered thunks of exchanged shuriken , indignant shout of a startled heron, the Emperor's quarters soaked with blood and shit, paper walled hallways stinking of fear
if we had only known to what extent the merchants would pervert the Culling. how the ones with rings on fat fingers, would soil our plumage
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