Deposits

Bran was moving slowly, out of necessity. He clattered when he moved now. Clattered and scraped and thudded. He’d given up on doorknobs, at least inside the house. Outside, he managed as best he could.

He peered out from the encrustations over his eyes and rumbled. His pincer-like hands ground uselessly against themselves at his sides.

A tiny slip of a girl drifted over to him. She smiled and grasped at the doorknob for him. Her hand slipped through.

Even as he watched, she faded a little further. He felt the new weight settle on the plates along his back.

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Sorry about that, ya'll. Rough few days at work. I am not dead, and I do not intend to let this lapse kill Mirrorshards.