Meadowlark Prairie perfect, you're my poison

She dared not breath. Blue found the single eye and held the gaze for a moment, before Sabah drew a breath, digging her toes into the ground.

She should run, some part of her whispered. She should fight, whispered another.

Sabah. Of Akashingo, just over there. She twisted to point to the Mesa. Sabah, of Akashingo, the ghost intent upon ruining her existence. The war Sabah wanted to thrust herself into. The running Nephele wanted to do, even now, in the exact opposite direction.

The monochrome woman took a deep breath. She’d answered the question. She need not say more.