Sunspire Mountains he threw me on the needle bed, across my dress he laid

Riley could hardly call pissing on a tree in defiance chaos, but one look at the guarded visage of the spitfire and he knew there was no budging her opinion.

They would just go back and forth, bickering -- hemming and hawing -- splitting hairs over what was and wasn't right. They were oil and water; if she was the flame-engulfed phoenix, Riley was the steady and immovable moss-ridden rock. They simply did not see eye to eye on what was spoken, despite the fact they very well might have been shored from the same clay.

He harrumphed, watching the rains as they fell in a cold and obscuring veil across the world. From their quiet, stony view it looked as if the entire world was one miserable shade of grey; even the emeralds of the distant slope were dulled to gunmetal.

As long as he was with them, he would always be clumped with them. He hated that as much as he hated the suggestion he was a pawn. "I don't hate you." Riley finally admitted, still watching the slow-moving clouds as they stormed across immeasurable distances. "I hate many things, though." Riley paused, thinking of the girl in the woods he had found. His mouth twisted in inexplicable sadness. His hate was effusive and raw, so real in its presence he felt it morph in his throat like an ashy carcinogenic.