Quistis flashed from fuel to flame to embers while the rest of them were smoke rising from green wood. Collapsing back to ashes and on the cusp of failing, turned to him to meet - silence. Swaddled in his own shadow; unwilling.
But the bright girl – buttercups, canaries; lemons in the spring sun - tripping over every obstacle and up again with her smile spreading wider, finds her in the corridor by the monster’s lair with her eternal question - wanna join the Festival Committee?Quistis, moon-dark in her gloom, hears the unquenchable laughter, thinks why not? Crooks a crescent finger.