The stories we tell are rich with the combined imagination of all shire members. What story do you have to tell?
I arrived in Woodland with nothing but my name, the clothes I wore, and that case of salt. It was a buzzing environment. I liked the hustle and bustle of the place. It was as though all the best parts of the world, without any of the bad, had come together in one perfect setting. It was a pure wonder to me.
Veron shook his head, he hated trusting demons. “Let’s do this, then.”
The cave was so bright he forgot what darkness meant. It wasn’t until a moment later that pitch black enveloped his vision, and a small cackle filled his mind. His heart sank slightly, being unable to see anything, but he was unable to fight the process.
Surely this was some manner of fae curse. Yes, it had to be. But who had cursed him, and why? Titania, or one of her court?
Sylvanus shifted in the moonlight, and the room glittered with the reflection off his coppery brown scales. He reminded Shay of the rocks, and hills, and of the mountains surrounding Woodland.
“I’m Puckleflup, patron of finders-keepers, devourer of pies, and master of this castle!”
Kane stopped his pacing, and turned to look directly at Shay. He fished something from a hidden pocket up his sleeve. “We found only this.” Kane said holding out the key that Shay had released Westmont with.
Laddy rested his hand on a small dagger that to Tilly had appeared from nowhere like magic. The handle was a deep rust color and the blade was made of pure obsidian. It was well cared for. As soon as she had seen it Laddy whisked it away stashing it in some place Tilly could not see.
There was a subtle change in the glint off Evanlyn’s arrow, and Shay realized it was now pointing directly at her.
Lorcan expected that perhaps they would roll out some long red ribbon for him to walk on, and would play trumpets at his return. But, that would be ridiculous. Long red ribbons were expensive and impractical, and trumpets weren’t to be invented for several centuries.
She however paused as he held out his pay, seeming to recognize him. “Wait, what’s your name?”
“Veron Tepes, son of Vlad,” Veron replied, setting down his payment as she seemed to refuse to give him his loaf, eyeing him up and down, trying to recognize where she’d seen him before.
Yet despite the legends and dangers present, still people try to reach the tops of these stone columns, only to fall to their deaths below. There are some skeptics who don’t believe that there’s anything at the top of these stones at all, that they’re myths created by vindictive people, or even Haute himself.
He was beginning to understand why the Lime Sink was so hard to find.
For a moment he feared the dream that had woken him was more than a dream, and that he was once again in the time before time; that he had somehow returned to the age of Gods.
He didn’t want to die, but if he was going to, it seemed better to him to cross the Styx from this place than on some forsaken battle ground, fighting some other man’s war.