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

it is the tug of iced fingers along her spine, that prickle of something not quite conscious. intuition has her gaze return to the earth and stone, prying into the stretching shadows and empty spaces. watching for that flicker, small as it may be, of movement of life. she finds it in the motionless silhouette perched atop the stone; this stranger, as if a continuation of the rock, sets his gaze on her. 

aggression might have been her answer should not the dull spar of familiarity catch somewhere in the rear of her mind. a moment, in which thoughts and memories are sorted through and discarded. "hello, uncle." she is certain. gaze traces him more closely; this man, made of the stretching shadows and grey rock, shaped and given breath. it's been a long while sine she'd seen him last; she's been made a killer, a warlord, a survivor. she wonders if these experiences mark her in some way like the scars do, if something in her step, the angle of her features, mark her as all she is and has done.