firelight
the angles were sharp and precise, each side shimmering in the warm light. it gave off its own energy, each flash of colour lighting up the room in ways the sun never could. it represented joy, it represented love, but most of all, it represented hope.
word salad. that was the only term that could possibly describe the mess that was coming out of his mouth. it encompassed the chaos and disorder. but as he rambled his words grew less and less intelligible, and did it seem like he was chanting?
the fox was staring with grave intensity, a born killer stalking its prey. she was not a gentle creature and never would be. she had kits to protect. they were born wrong, on the day she lost her soul.
she was folding the linen carefully. not a crease, not a stain. absolutely pristine. they had to be, or she would lose everything. perfection was a requirement, not a goal. but where else could she go? who could be kinder? they offer her the world, at the expense of her life.
the item was of significant value, or so they told her at the shop. it was ancient, a true antique treasure, and rare. it could be worth hundreds, or thousands, or merely pennies with the right buyer. the pennies, those were coins that could be trusted. only as worthless as this antique junk.
the sight was breathtaking. the gems pulsed in alternating shades of red, blue, and purple. they surrounded the brightest one, waiting breathlessly for the gem to finally shine white--to change their world.
the air was a little harder to breathe in here. the cave was dark, damp, filled with meandering puddles of muddy water. there was the taste of mold in the air, and every step felt heavy. he continued on, pushing his way through the tunnels, knowing it was now or never.
something fluttered in the breeze. a lace handkerchief, pale pink and delicate. intricate floral patterns around the edges. of course. it could only belong to one woman. she was going to need this bit of lace for her next disguise.
she loved to wander in these woods. the trees towering above her, the moss soft beneath her feet. stepping over roots and rocks and all the little creatures. Never let your foot touch a creature. Everyone knew that. And everyone stayed out of the woods.
there was no writing on the wall. a thin layer of dust, perhaps, coating whitewashed bricks. a few scratches, even a couple small strokes of paint, as if someone had tried to write on the wall and never got to finish. their words forever a mystery as person after person searched for the writing on the wall.
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