The time has come.
You close your eyes, bracing your weapon against your chest and wielding a determination few mortals even dream. Your opponent steps out from icy gossamer, tromping on flowers, the mop on his head as pale as the ground. He brandishes a violin. It's small and gray. Nothing about him is subtle--he's the color of death. He’s comatose rabbits and dormant crops and white breath. He is Antonio Vivaldi, slayer of autumn and naysayer of spring.
Your guitar is electric but lacks a cord, or even a port for such a purpose. Feverish heat expels from its slick surface. It’s not one color, but two, extending from cherry to pineapple from base to head. It thrives off you. You ignore a smirk he’s wedged at you, and instead tread closer; you’re a threat, a proposition. The ground vibrates! Equinox will overcome.
It’s your turn, you will not succumb.
You close your eyes, bracing your weapon against your chest and wielding a determination few mortals even dream. Your opponent steps out from icy gossamer, tromping on flowers, the mop on his head as pale as the ground. He brandishes a violin. It's small and gray. Nothing about him is subtle--he's the color of death. He’s comatose rabbits and dormant crops and white breath. He is Antonio Vivaldi, slayer of autumn and naysayer of spring.
Your guitar is electric but lacks a cord, or even a port for such a purpose. Feverish heat expels from its slick surface. It’s not one color, but two, extending from cherry to pineapple from base to head. It thrives off you. You ignore a smirk he’s wedged at you, and instead tread closer; you’re a threat, a proposition. The ground vibrates! Equinox will overcome.
It’s your turn, you will not succumb.
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