Rage

The Panoptes of Elesarp was trammeled in her own web.

Sedulous she had culled together her host, sucked the surviving life from their limp husks; until a thousand selves crowded out her own, a hundred thousand memories buzzed in her like a swarm of bees; her pillaged ipseity the single flower from which they all drank, into which they deposited their foul pollen.

Around and around the keep's blasted districts and courts they drove her, through Kron and Ampridatvir and Talislanta, their funeral galleries and gutted tenements, and she could not close her hundred eyes to the abject ugliness that she had sponsored. She learned instead to withdraw into the hum and keen of the strangers' music, the places in their thoughts that could not be mapped in words, and excited her corpulent length into a dancing fury.

Around and around, so her rage and horme purified, undivided.

Hyuri's specter walked the streets of the last city on a hundred crooked, shambling feet.