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If Shallan were a writer rather than a visual artist

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Perhaps this is how writer-Shallan might express her overarching feeling regarding what she did to Testament:


I cut out my tongue with blade of silver, and bind it with wrappings of boiled linen and ripe rowan berry. I tie it high in the rafters with rope of braided ivy, amongst the drying hyssop and rue. It hangs restlessly, thrashing in the flickering shadows thrown from the hearth as I recount mortal wounds left in its wake. After far, far too long a time it grows quiescent, as embers die slowly into ash. And still, sleep refuses my embrace.

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