Dreamthief simply can't get his act together after the incident at the battlefield. Whatever happened took a toll on him, like he's been drained. Usually a few of his gifts would keep him on top of his game, but even they aren't enough this time. Damn, he thinks. All the power in the universe and it still feels like I have a hangover.
The benefactors seem to be changing route. The Paxians, he observes from a cliff, and the otherworldly beings alike are migrating west. He has been spotting a few outer-worlders mixed into the Paxian crowd now, and he can't help but marvel how receptive the people have been to accept they're not the center of the universe. They just don't realize how off center they were yet must be.
Where the hell are those damned birds? He sits on a lofty peek as high noon sets in, waiting for his entourage of messengers. For the first time in a long time the heat of the sun makes his thick costume iritate his skin and make him sweat. This does nothing to ease his already poisonous mood. Those birds should be here by now and... is that a headache?
Over the ledge he can practically smell the shady air. Yes, it had a smell, of copper or metal, of blood. Not to be metaphorical that there was a war far below, just simply that cold draft on stone makes an irony scent, which is far better than the scorching heat up here, which smells something awful. Like... humus that's been sitting out too long.
The first freaking bird I see... I swear to--
Women made of yellow-hued glass lift up delicately from the desert sands, looking like heat vapor in the sun. They surround him, a dozen perhaps, and link hands and begin to dance seductively for him. A scout group of benefactors. The most obvious choice against the porcelain Maidens would be his little pressure cooker trick (truth be told not all his gifts have proper names, some are just too much fun)...
At the snap of his fingers, the Maidens, who have been gradually dancing faster and faster, closing in... continue their dance. No no no, don't back out on me now! Another power proves useless and in desperation, before he is crushed by the whirling glass dancers, throws a quick jab straight into the fray, remembering the Tidings of Prometheus. A flaming arc melts down the circle like a blowtorch on ice.
While catching his breath (another first-timer for him) a solitary bird, a quail, begins to perch on his shoulder. Without removing his gaze from the horizon line straight ahead, he reaches across and squeezes the thing to death with one swift movement.
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