Running out of Empty

Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland: 680 words. Kate gets the first confirmations of disaster, and bears her spent and shattered companion to strange camp. This is Kate, now: still abrasive and blood-toothed, but so well able to love somebody she can barely understand or like, she will ward her as jealously as a she-wolf with one cub. I wrote nothing about her over the weekend for the simple reason that my reserves of heart had run out, and I was not equal to her.

This seems like a queer quiet mirror of her first unequivocally heroic showing in this tale, written about a year ago, when she threw herself between horrid destruction and... somebody... she both loathed and pitied.

- A curious feeling, to know that your wordcraft is working just fine, but that you need a strong infusion of world in order to have anything to put into it. Paper masks, I could have made, and a great scrawling of them. I made a song on Sunday, and then I trusted I was coming back to myself. Next scene, the news will hit, and Kate & Co. must hit back.

Dydd Gŵyl Dewi Sant to one and all!