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Dragon Wars- CaptivityI rescued the dragons from the evil king.
They did not thank me.
They want me dead.
I have been on the run for three weeks.
It is not easy to sleep when there are dragons on your trail.
I plead for mercy.
No one answers.
They want my blood.
I do not wish to become their mindless slave.
I was on the run for three week, five days and fourteen hours.
My body failed me.
I slept for twelve hours before they found my hiding place among the rocks and forcibly dug me out.
The cell is ten feet by five feet, and contains no window or loose brick.
I tested every single one.
Three days have passed, and still I have had no news, no word, and only a crust of stale bread akin to a stone of the same size.
What does the king want of me?
I did not rescue the dragons from the evil king.
They did not need rescuing.
It was too late for them
Is it too late for me?
He dreamed of a woman crying out for help, and the overwhelming crackle of flames and smell of smoke.
The dragons left me in the co
#66 Haunting MelodyThe song strayed through his memories, in both waking and sleeping and nothing he tried would erase it's presence from his mind. The song, he suspected, would end if he could only reach the blue stone from the other side of the room, and envelop it with his sword-hardened hands as he found himself longing to, now that it had been removed from the chain around his neck where he had kept it secret for so many long months. It was a simple solution, but at the same time, an impossible one at that.
The knife wounds that threatened his thighs and calves had not healed in two weeks. It was not that he expected a miracle recovery, but even the town doctor had displayed his confusion at why there had not been even a sign of healing from any of the deep lacerations. Though he could not -would not even dream of- telling the simple farmer-turned-physician why, Morrian knew, and the knowledge only darkened his thoughts. The wounds were poisoned, not by a poison coating the blade,
Cozy Winter NightsThe floor-length drapes were pulled back just enough to reveal the faint glimmer of the distant starlight. Inside, the happy glitter of glass charms bouncing off of wine glasses met with the warm laughter that emanated from the handful of people comfortably sprawled throughout the room, creating a sense of camaraderie like no other. The heady scent of the spiced cider in my own glass pulled my focus back to the current conversation, just in time to realize that I had completely lost track of the topic at hand.
"How about you, Meadow? Need a refill on your cider? There's plenty more simmering on the stove."
I grinned back at the Captain who lay on her back, head propped up just enough to see the television, "I feel like I ought to be the one offering refills as I can actually move in a corset, and you're flat on the floor over there."
"Seeing as you're can't though," Ranelwen said from where she sat curled up in the armchair, her multiple layers of skirts and silk scarves ac
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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