Judgement pages through image after image, studious. She understands, almost—she understands something. Locks too rusted to function, swords without hands to lift them, the absence of chains: she lingers on these figments, searing them with the heat of her eye.

Home, and here; different places. She understands that. She has hunted through many homes—through dens and burrows, through treetops and cliff roosts, through private dreams and sacred reveries. She once spread over a death-bed like a thick liquid shroud, crushing and drowning some one's last breaths.

And this place is—

a prison, she whispers, in her voice the thought of red skies and a cell's unbroken walls. No need for chains or locks, no need for war or terror.

so that is why i am here.