Shook stood on the western battlements, leaned over the edge, smoked a cigarette. The sky bruised into twilight, what Scatter called the gloaming. No one listened to Scatter. He was an idiot.
Outside the walls, the forests eddied and quivered, independent of the wind. Dark blue clouds stretched down tendrils, brushed the tops of trees and the grass, but didn’t touch the fortress. There were whispers.
“Anything going?” came a voice from the courtyard. Rupture, probably.
Shook sighed and flicked his smoke over the edge. A cloud snatched it before it touched the ground.
“Nothing new. They’re still out there.”