Buoyant are her golden wings

This place...she rationalizes, the rift was at fault. Aye, my brain cackles with dry, humorless vigor. 'Ye say true and I say thankee, Sai.' An elder artifact, from a time before the world moved on, before it was slaughtered and prepped for adulteration, decay. Her accusation (however true it was) offers little comfort. It passes the blame and solidifies desperation. In all reality, we are trapped; we are vulnerable birds in a wooden cage. One with rot at the bottom -- were maggots writhe in the filth, wiggling and squirming -- awaiting their moment of satisfaction to plunge teeth into wet, warm flesh. Slip their soft, ashen bodies down the blood-soaked halls. Water plops continuously, slipping lithely from leaf and twig to the sponge below. Silence weighs the air between us; these lips tighten their corners, waiting dutifully...but said disembodied voice doesn't break cover. This dripping head shies over, nakedly meeting her quizzing, thoughtful eyes. Those queer orders still whirl in my head -- and though my tongue works to make sense of it -- the effort would fall painfully short. He relays everything, addressing her question in a flat, even tone. No sooner had those lips finished relaying their nonsense did the sentinels blare their warning! Molten cores rotate anxiously, glaring sideways to scan the vibrant grove around us. Movement...nostrils swell and ebon brims curl, barring their ivory swords. The fine hairs on my spine tingle aggressively and velvet soldiers notch rearward.

image credit