Even in this, a WIP:
The lost-soul wailing rebecs echoing across the crumbing roofs of the western quarters, the lone and mournful note of a desert pipe played by some goatherd down from the hills, the gentle patter of a xylophone being pressed into music by some early-rising drover waiting to greet the first bright sliver of sun.
Benjobi woke from a dream of a desert of skulls; he woke with the taste of blood in his mouth; he woke to the unfamiliar knowledge of snow, a tactile understanding borne in the cold tips of his fingers, in the unfamiliar chill across his body
| Originally published at jlake.com. |