Mother Iron held my arm pinched in a grip that seemed tight enough to shear pipes. I looked into her eyes. They gleamed with the orange-white of the hottest coals.
"So it begins." Mother Iron's voice was rusty as a grate. Her breath gusted like a wind from a great distance, and reeked of stale air.
"We move swiftly," the Dancing Mistress answered softly. "To stay ahead of the hunt which is even now being called."
The old woman -- or woman-thing, for I was mindful of Secundo's sleeping gods -- squeezed my arm again. "Be true and hold your edge," she said. Then she was gone, so quickly she might as well have vanished like mist banished before breaking sunlight.
[writing] Progriss riport
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