(no subject)
The days have been getting darker, these past few weeks. The clouds are so thick that it is impossible to tell where the sun is at any time of day. Noon is merely brightened, frosty twilight.
In the snowbound silence of noon, his shape an inkblot across the winterbound lawn, the Black Rider walks back towards the bar. His bearing is proud and arrogant, and above all, triumphant. His black-gloved right hand is closed around something.
In the snowbound silence of noon, his shape an inkblot across the winterbound lawn, the Black Rider walks back towards the bar. His bearing is proud and arrogant, and above all, triumphant. His black-gloved right hand is closed around something.