Dragoncrest Cliffs you got a boy like him, a man like me

sobeille drank all of val's imparted stories in as a drunkard does with wine: greedily, brazenly, heedlessly. it was not enough.

he told her pieces when she wanted the whole portrait; he fed her lines when she wanted the entire coast. she fidgeted, silent as she ruminated. there was enough here to paint the barest of sketches -- she would have to draw from him strokes of color, brushes of texture -- until at last she had a lively and living impression of the storied lives before her.

i be wantin' to know who i come from. sobeille replied distantly. she was already moving, but not yet aware -- in thought, she traveled close to the graves of her kin, forgetting val was ever there at all.