The Spear of Destiny.
The flock of tiny squawking parrakeets swoop and dive above her head as she spins the spear, faster and faster. A single piece of wrought black iron, long bladed and engraved from end to end. Like motes of emerald, they dart and plummet, shining amongst the drabness of Scissor Street and fluttering past a feral parliament of watchful owls, down into the bridge-spoked chasm that falls thirteen stories to the surface of the Legerdemain River. She stamps and twirls, muscles complaining and tendons creaking. Yet not a sound escapes her palely compressed lips, sweat beads her brow and runs tiny rivulets through her close-cropped hair. She leaps and twists, all the while jabbing and cutting with this sorcerous ebon shaft, a filigree of shadow blurring in the encroaching dusk. Finally she slows, her breath harsh in her ears and a taste of tin in the back of her throat. Her pale skin shines with sweat as she kneels unmoving at the roofs edge. The winds cold traceries touch her, and murmers one single word.