And, as the spark becomes famine, a darkness without paint is laying its hands on the glass. Reflective and opaque, eyes revert inward in a flight from everyday, until the sky is strife. Belonging to a hyphenated void, time launches an inversion upon a gathering of drones, mindless and numb to magnetism.
In a place of granite, hardened in cold, hoards of faceless scavengers scratch for truth. Among the ruins, sharp stones in dirt slice through unknowing hands, reaching for something unbidden. They scream without knowledge.
A stab, as if in response, of gray light pierces from high, and, to a symphony of scurrying claws, a stooped figure unfurls. Folded in hands and brittle as ice, an emblem in pewter catches a part of the gray.
An eye is awakened. A triumph foregone. Bleeding and subtle, the ears huddle together in flux, a voiceless semblance of cooperation, a deceptively complex endeavor. No intelligence to judge it, a patter of wings as the emblem is dropped, to shatter.
Gray fades to black and the scurrying stops, drifting aimless, alone, they return.
IllMane, Tarfounder in Skew