Rain on lime is a grey soup trying to happen.

You are on the flyer plank with a hawk of mortar because a canon’s deadline climbed the scaffold without mixing anything. The joint that wanted a hat gets stirred instead. Grey runs on stone like a mistake learning to walk.

Ned appears, not kind. “Off. Now. We cover what’s left. You were sent. You also have legs.”

You can still argue, cover, join the people who are treating weather as weather.

Or you can keep spreading soup because obedience to the wrong instruction feels like duty.

The Translation will have a leak named after this hour if the joint fails. Nobody has to fall for the week to die.

Soup-mortar does not smell different at first. Then it smells like river. The flyer’s joint, which wanted to be a bone, becomes a smear. You can still stop. Stopping is a skill. Canons cannot mix from a chapter house. That is why they need you to know when they are wrong.