Morningside Cuesta and in the trembling blue-green of the sky

nearer did her audience approach, words swirled delicately, to ensnare, draw near. words were her weapons, if she were brutish enough to name them such; no, perhaps they were something finer, something that did not seek to found but to ensnare, enrich. the din of the coyotes, somewhere far beyond, faltered, failing, leaving behind only the soft cacophony of the night insects. some hunter wheeled and plummeted high above, the softest brush of feather's audible even here, but unnoticed. 

then did she study the eyes, suddenly before her. they danced; not in the hues of some faint nebula but in the raging flame of a wildfire, hot and rampant in its destruction. it was discord, passion, set like jewels into the crown of the diminutive woman. for a long moment did she study the gaze, allowing the question to made into silence as if unheard; impossible, so loud and discordant against her own murmurs. finally, softly. "perhaps nothing. perhaps more. it is not my decree." she did not elaborate, did not bother explaining that she did not carry the answer to that; as the universe bestowed divine gifts so did it bestow divine fates, if theirs should be intertwined was a secret hidden from her own searching gaze into the stars. 

she did not ask her name, something so inconsequential as the title given by another to one's soul meant little, save for those cases rare and few. "you are of the wildfire. there are few tales etched in the stars that speak of fire; of dragons and destruction, yes, but not of the sort that dances in your crown." the words were little more than whispered musings, outwardly, but there was thought behind the words; intent, or the mistborn would not have uttered them aloud.