Fairspell Meadow Whiplash

the new rhythm of akashingo took time to understand. the crone kept to herself, the metaphorical fly on the wall — while life in the red temple bustled around her. 

she left for the gardens at early morning. once, she and sayf had laid out the groundwork here — now it was overrun by weeds. 

the call of her disciple sounded. she gathered herself and shook the dust from her old bones, finding him speeding across the green. he’d grown leggy these last few months; a dark weed bolting towards his appointed destination. 

setting aside her to’lang, the crone waited for him to speak.