Amirra leaped off Skyflash, stumbling. Smoke poured from the village. She raced over, tripping on her dress. She made her way through the front gate, stepping over pieces of rubble and charred wood. Skyflash followed her. Amirra picked her way through the rubble and went to the site of Elda’s ruined house.
“Elda!” she called. “Elda! Tsara! Miskel!” Where were they?
Just then, she heard a noise coming from under a piece of wood from the rafters. She turned to Skyflash.
“Skyflash! Help me!” she cried. Skyflash easily knocked the wood aside. Amirra saw a slightly charred red rug. She moved it. She
She hides behind the words
that press past her taut lips,
the ones that flatter harshly,
from which the acid drips.
Her witchy words confound you
in the sweetest chime of voice,
but she quietly unearths your faults
and in your pain she does rejoice.
Inside her mouth – in the abyss –
dwells a rotting sponge drenched with sweet:
a taste so rich it makes her sick;
she spews acid, her mouth replete.
She’s the master and you’re the puppet
within her ghostly game.
She doesn’t care, she’s only kind
to dip her hand in the jar of fame.
You’re none the wiser to her scheme
for your knowledg