Under the blood red sky, Tsura danced. As the world crumbled to conclusion, she danced. She danced for her people. She danced for love. She danced for her dead husband. She danced for her dead daughter. She danced for the child who was not her own. She danced to praise the gods and to call upon the stars. She danced for Magic. She danced for Life.
And to her steps, the heavens sang.
Joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, in the flash of her hands, the patter of her bare feet, the jingles of the bells upon her wrists and ankles, the swirl of her skirt, and the sway of her hips, all that was human and glorious and honorable and worth holding onto erupted in rhythm and grace.
In the ugliness of the world’s end, she was beautiful and rare and more precious than anything could ever be.
In the face of death, she was defiant.
But her heart broke.
Even as she smiled, a tear rolled down her cheek.
The curse of precognition was in her blood.
The time of sacrifice drew close–and someone was about to die.
– Clarisse, Daughter of the Gypsy Queen, Chovihanis-in-training –
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