She wanders out of the thump and growl of the club, out into the thick night painted with gleaming crimson lines. She looks up… up… into the great black vastness above, at the dim twinkle of tiny jewels piercing the sordid haze.
The feathers rustle like little twists of wind as her wings unfold. She leaps–
– or was she pushed?
You have heard that strange, grinding sound before. When the big blue box appears, you are hardly surprised, except that one has not been seen in this part of the forest. Still, there it is, and there is the lady you recognize: the banshee, the muse, lurching from the blue doors to a tree stump, her long hair curly and tangling in her haste. She thrusts one pale hand into the stump, pulls out a little leather tome, then scribbles in it, with phoenix feather and ink that gleams violet black. She replaces the book, then dives back into the blue box… but not before catching your eye, and flashing you a little mischievous smile.
The blue box makes those sounds again, like exhausted machinery grinding Time under its wheels. And then they are both gone.
But the tree stump remains, with its’ hidden prize…
She muttered, “Go away. I am wrestling with my Muse, and losing.”
and the cad exclaimed, “Girl fight!”
