On a roof, under a lantern, a giant slept.
A mind filled with the residue of electrical hell.
A body twitching in memory of storms long past.
Watch what moves a tempest.
Maybe learn the song of lightning held close to a heart burned and blackened.
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The city is on fire now.
The riots are not a surprise. Â They were an eventuality. Â The explosion at the White Gate two days ago was just one of dozens that announced the arrival of the Garlean "Liberation" force.
The Empire was trying to contain the fire but the Poor burn as easily as the rich and flame danced in the garden of everyone's heart here in Ala Mhigo. Â
Take that Roe in the alley. Â The one in the long leather coat and brass tassels, copper chains holding a large book to their back. Â She was moving fast. Â The brass on her clothing carried hungry sparks of light from the city that was smouldering around her. Â
She's not the only one trying to be a refugee today. Â Thousands are running. Â Few will find a place to stop. Â
Chaos is going to eat this city alive and the smoke that is it's herald twists and howls above Ala Mhigo's battered streets.
She's not the only Roe in the Alley though.Â
Larger roe at another end. Â Uglier roe at another end. Â A roe with a Brick in his hand.
Maybe Hammersmith hasn't learned what regret is.
Maybe all either of them have right now is a fury that's going to eat them alive.
They're yelling. Â Honestly the large, blood crusted, soot-smudged Hammersmith shouldn't have the strength in his lungs for this argument. Â The waves of scabbing blood in his white hair would tell you that much.
But he's younger and has vigor to sacrifice to pettyness.
Min shouldn't have the strength for this either. Â Maybe they're tired. Â Maybe they're angry.
Maybe they're sick of it all. Â
The smaller roe's voice is getting louder. Â It's equal and booming to the giants and the two's voices growl and clash in the confines of the alley's walls.
Words. Â Some of power. Â Some of fury. Â Some that won't be able to be taken back. Â The smoke grows wings. Â Electricity dances in the tempest of cinders. Â It's hard to tell if the booms are cannons, or thunder.
An arm holding a bloody, white brick up to be thrown.
A song of storms and cinders blurring together in screams and shouts and words that run fingers over the brain then down the spinal cord. Â Words that make you regret having a sense of hearing. Â Words that have power and fury and frantic pain behind them.
And then silence.
The crackling lightning in the smoke fades. Â The ashes and sparks of the choking storm blow on to other lungs and other fatalities to seek.
The two turn their backs.
They flee the city.
They go different directions.
The Spark Shaman south.
The Weather Witch north.
Two friends once.
Gone now
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Up on a roof a giant opens his one eye and stares at a cloudless sky.
He doesn't know why they stopped. Â He isn't sure why the storm didn't strike.
Up on a roof Hammersmith sniffs the wind and waits for rain.