Sunspire Mountains all the butterflies have turned to vultures in my stomach

she met his wonderous gaze inscrutably, "lead the way." esmé said while flashing a shyster's smile. 

riley's injuries were grievous, thickflowing from the garlands cut into his flesh. she wondered to herself whose fangs had befouled the boy first— he was green as grass; improbable agent provocateur. there was no motive.

as she convoyed the vulnerable boy on his yellow brick road wrought sanguineous, she was conscious of the malignance of sociableness metastasizing in her mind. something she couldn't presently reconcile with the drouth of empathy that resisted every talebearer's hardship.

irritated with her own head, she loped up next to him and ever-so-slightly bore up some of his weight, staring blankly ahead as her own ruddled body supported the appendage he favoured most. "if that man—donovan, the one who calls you peaches, ever makes you do something you don't want to do, i'll be picking shards of his larynx from between my teeth." she said, with the threat bidding fair from the contemplative tone of her voice.

her pyrefire eyes remained fixed ahead, lips pulled in a taut line.