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Literature Text
"Like a barnacle on the underside of a boat."
That was how he described their home to her. It hung from the side of the cliff facing the western end of the river, cantilevered out on reinforced wooden stilts. The young girl had never left the confines of the village; after remarking on the distant hamlets and farms that dotted the fields below, she wondered what her own home looked like to outsiders and travelers in the world below.
"You mean a sea-carriage?" Her voice was light and sweet like honeysuckle, and carried the lilt of a soprano. He laughed then, a deep, appreciative chuckle. She loved it when he laughed. He always threw his head back like the horses in her mother's drawings.
"No, I meant boat."
She tilted her head to one side, letting her honey-blonde hair fall over her shoulder. It usually hung in a long, single braid woven with her mother's nimble fingers, but today it was everywhere. "Mama calls them sea-carriages. I like that better."
That was how he described their home to her. It hung from the side of the cliff facing the western end of the river, cantilevered out on reinforced wooden stilts. The young girl had never left the confines of the village; after remarking on the distant hamlets and farms that dotted the fields below, she wondered what her own home looked like to outsiders and travelers in the world below.
"You mean a sea-carriage?" Her voice was light and sweet like honeysuckle, and carried the lilt of a soprano. He laughed then, a deep, appreciative chuckle. She loved it when he laughed. He always threw his head back like the horses in her mother's drawings.
"No, I meant boat."
She tilted her head to one side, letting her honey-blonde hair fall over her shoulder. It usually hung in a long, single braid woven with her mother's nimble fingers, but today it was everywhere. "Mama calls them sea-carriages. I like that better."
Literature
Little One
Little One
Little one,
Yesterday you were just a child,
Today your eyes are open
And filled with disillusionment,
Do not get lost
As you grow into a beautiful woman,
You will have opportunities
I could only dream of,
So hold on to your wits,
This is my wish for you,
Be who you are,
Trust no one and you will rule the world.
I will watch your every step
With the adrenaline of concern
Weighing heavy on my heart,
Do not let power
Nor weakness sweep you away,
Many hands will reach out to you
With the darkest desires,
The sickest intentions,
Let seclusion guide your feet,
Do not fall prey to deception,
Fleeting, nor foolish thoughts,
Hold on to
Literature
A Little Sneak Peak :D
Startled awake, I jumped to my feet, resting one hand on the wall. Passing my hand over my forehead, I discovered a cold sweat. What was happening? I had not dreamt in years, those of my kind have been cursed to a forlorn and dreamless existence. The memory of my father opened up an old wound, one that had never healed. With this came a barrage of my past, memories of playing in the fields with my siblings, being taught the use of magic, the silent rebuke of my parents. They had always thought I would be destined for great things, maybe even more so than my brothers and sisters. If only they saw me now; after all they did. Dwelling on memories of the past is of no use. We can only move forward, and in life it is our duty to do so. I went to the bathroom, leaned on the sink and stared into the mirror. The reflection showed a man in his young twenties, with high cheekbones and a strong chin. Clean-shaven with straight, black hair, I looked almost perfectly normal, if only it weren't
Literature
A taste of Scorbosgol
It was no secret what had become of Count Wyrzucik's beloved wife, though few of the villagers dared speak of it. They feared the Count and his obsessive devotion to his wife, for he considered any word spoken against her criminal. Still, if one listened to the hushed whispers spoken in the tavern, where ale and mead numbed the fear of the Count, one could hear of the terror that lurked beneath the Count's manor. Those who had glimpsed it spoke of a creature with chitin and fur that walked on many clawed feet.
Every week, the Count would order his men to bring five villagers, each of whom he would accuse of a crime. After a brief farce of a
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The beginning to a story I never finished.
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i LOVE THIS OM FG