Standing near the rear of the stadium, where she could barely see the stories unfold, but it was close enough, even in tiny detail, to see the care of craftmanship that appeared in what had to be quickly-woven scenarios.
Snow! What a secret ingredient!
The nemesis of winter; the scent of a snow-job; the horrid sensation of being snowed-under by mountains of desk duty in a dead end job; a deleterious drug (or is she confusing it with something in that cyberpunk novel, Snowcrash; or an entity made up of individual flakes it is said of which not one is the same? (Hard to believe that last, considering how much snow has fallen over the annals of time.)
Taniko holds her breath as each story is related, not minding that as a late arrival, she's not found a seat, back high in the stands. She can see, hear, experience enough, and from her perspective, all the Iron Writings to this moment glitter with something more than iron.
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