'Well,' Thibet said to the raven. 'We're here.'
They were an odd pair, the two of them - a pale girl with ice-blue hair, a black-feathered bird perched silently on her shoulder. Not that either would've looked at home in the vast desert alone; despite her best efforts, she was turning lobster-red rapidly, and the bird was fluffed but listless.
She hadn't intended to come to the desert - not at first. But there had been so many rumors she'd heard, so many stories, so many legends whispered breathlessly over a campfire at night, traded like rare jewels over a glass of
po cha in a smoky tent. She liked to say she couldn't resist a good adventure; she liked to prove herself right.
and if you ask how i regret that parting:
it is like the flowers falling at spring's end
confused, whirled in a tangle.
what is the use of talking, and there is no end of talking,
there is no end of things in the heart.
ezra pound,
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