I can see her, spectral lines hastily sketched in the ocean bed
she rises from below, wreathed in tentacles and strewn with seaweed. She does not feel, she does not know how to shiver, she has her knife, her smile
... and she has no fear at all
I can hear her, phantom bells tinkling with the waves, a ghostly crash of cymbals when she strikes the thermocline. She's been there so long, treading eldritch measures in the mad courts of the dead gods, yet now she rises.
Is it really time to walk the faded path, and break the mainspring? Oh gods, it's been so long, so long, and I'm so tired.
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