Crisp linen sheets, freshly bleached in blood.

Akira · May 04, 2019, 01:02 PM

It is already too late to swim when the water reaches your lips.

Within the mist, some piece of the asianic girl prayed for Ford to be who spoke to her, for him to notice she had worked hard to find him, for him to return back to his place atop the Rift and claim his home back. Yet it was not he, and rather behind her a voice of different origin sounded.

Turning a narrow gaze of of enrapturing blues over her shoulder, she eyes this newcomer with a near apathetic sternness that was most uncharacteristic for who she was a moon ago. There was no humble greeting nor bow of welcome from her to the accompanying male.

“Greetings. I am Akira.” That was all she offered the pale man. But rather than being a complete introvert, the Tibetan slowed her pace to allow him to catch up should he choose.

Not all birds have been taught to fly. Some simply fall until they either learn, or perish.