Sunspire Mountains for the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

He did not cease his boundless watch; incessant of eye, those pools of ice whetted to pierce oncoming gloom. Poised, phantom king, the silencer stared down the jagged incline, that bulwark of rock and earth, with little admiration – a gleaming of nefarious nonchalance, inhumanly detached, void of heart-throes and the pities of anguish.

Her greeting did not cause him pause, did not shatter the wordless stare – so fathomless in weight, yet glazed in the last prevailing rays of sunlight; quick, before it might meld into starlight. Of storm-wrecked glass and rivers of ice. She stood there, among dirt and stone, in ruinous thew, soundless in scrutiny yet wrought with some unspoken belligerence. Mettle, confident. Closer to himself than her mother had been – interesting. Black lip thinned, some brooding rumination, yet thought unreadable.

“Hello,” he returned, canting an iron-forged chin; she smelled of the saints.