Plaster dust drifted down. This woman would be honest only when she absolutely had to be; left to her own devices and desires, she’d lie about everything—the weather, the crops, the flights of birds come Reaping. Lacks arms, has hands; lacks a head but has a face. The face of the girl this hag once had been, mayhap.
Clouds floated serenely through its depths; so did the image of the occasional swooping bird. His stomach cushioned it as he struck the ground; it rolled off him and trickled to a stop by one of his limp, outstretched hands. xpecting a hand to settle on the scruff of his neck (which bad-natured folk always seemed able to find, no matter how I’m a man.
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