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The texture wasn't to ever be erased from her memory -- warm, thick, clinging to the skin more than any ink. Currents ran across her hand, a hand that was limp underneath that foul liquid that pulsed and swirled. It flowed over the edge of the platform that was parallel to where she lay. The floors were gold and engraved with hieroglyphs of the Great Hunter leading the men who followed him; she could speak the myths from memory even with as little time she'd spent in Armas' temple. The floors gleamed even beneath smears of blood. The floors of the Generals' Tower. If she looked up, she might have seen the sky through the glass dome.
( Her eyes moved, but only because she could move nothing else... ) | |
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