Title: Hakata
Word Count: 450
(anything else): Hakata is the means by one uses bones in divination. There's also osteomancy, but I liked this better. (8 Anyway, more dealings with the Lessers!
Her Prophet stands before her, gaze on the moon, voice as sharp and empty as shattered glass. His word is law.
"Watch them. Fools can ruin even the most careful of plans."
She remembers nothing and knows it does not matter.
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Her foes stand before her, eyes the color of fool's gold, many voices digging into her mind and screeching. They are but animals.
deathandying#*%hatredguideshimandweshallrend#%$#andyouwillfallandzzzzzZZZZTTTTttttt
She remembers echoes and tells herself it does not matter.
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A Fuse stands before her, silver and purple and shadow walking, the weapon of flames. It says nothing, but holds out dry cloth that has seen time in deserts.
You are at home with the dry lands of Pride, are you not? It's (her) voice is sly and wistful and she does not understand it. Nonetheless, pale rose encloses itself about the offering, a cube to keep it safe.
She remembers savanna heat and wonders if it does not matter.
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Their world crumbles about them, mixed purple and smokey gray together, as the Fuse (assassinroberta) has made it her habit to do. They are silent. They hold on.
The bones which had once been wrapped up in animal hide fall to the groundand clatter together like consequences falling, one after the other. She remembers how they had once whispered to her and loses her rigid straightness as she kneels upon the ground. For one of the first times in her existence, she unfolds her arms, the sleeves billowing around long black fingers. The bones sigh at her touch.
The Fuse's fingers are sharp but gentle. We should leave.
She only raises her blindfolded and hidden eyes up to their eternal black sky. Hearts are falling like comets. I shall stay. And so does the Fuse.
In the end, she remembers everything: the men who went to hunt, the rituals her tribe would do, the triumphant roar of lions and the desperate cackles of hyenas. The tales. An oracle who could not see.
She remembers, and holds the Fuse's hand in her own, knowing it means an entire world.
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The woman who stands before her has steps which slam into the pavement almost defiantly, a laugh which snaps against the ears like flames. She knows this woman's voice.
"Are you some kind of sorceress?"
Her lips twist in a small little knowing smile. "With all the noise you make to hide your true self, I myself would label you an assassin." She spreads her hands out to gesture to the various knicknaks on her table in the market: crystal ball, tarot cards. Her true tools lie in an animal skin pouch. "But I am Hala, a fortune teller."
The woman takes her hand, and Hala remembers castles crumbling, crashing dreams. "Call me Bobby."
And Hala remembers.
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Additional Author's Note: Assassin and Sorcerer, if you're curious. (8 At least by the end of this story, kind of.
