(Written on a scrap from Gent's pile of loose paper and stuck, after some thought, in her nightmare journal)Waking, all I can hear are their whispers. The whispers cling, haunting me, clinging to my flesh like hands, tugging, tearing at the fabric until I am naked before them. Then they can accuse me, their bloodied fingers pointing to their wounds ( Read more... )

From an old Upland poem I was taught by the Sisters as a warning against such things as honey dens:

There is sweet music here that softer falls ( Read more... )

Argentia sat listlessly on the bench outside her lodging house, the cries and laughter from inside ignored as she caressed the small tan weasel on her lap. She had finally turned in the damnable mushroom epic poem comissioned by the slimey fugi farmer, and been paid accordingly. Even the echoes in her purse didn't help the fact she'd spent several ( Read more... )