“When the murderer saw that he had killed the wrong person and that various other people saw what he did, he did the only thing that went through his mind.”
“And that would be?” The woman asked as she wrote everything the man with the umbrella had just said.
“Running away, obviously.” The man said as he kneeled down and checked the coat of the dead man. “But not before taking something valuable from the man. The secret pocket here isn’t completely closed, and the man would close the pocket before leaving his home.”
A scorch mark left on the wall. The quiet thud of combat boots. A pale pink smirk. Sharp green eyes squinting against the harsh desert sun. One of many Dracs laying dead on the ground.
It fell to her and Hemlock to raise Oleander, and Wisteria was determined not to let her son become a monster. There was far too much cruelty in the Court of Darkness already.
Seeing the reflection of the eyes gave them pause.
“Infósat,” she whispered, clutching her legs tighter to herself, wanting to curl herself around the child who remained the smallest candle in the darkness. Still sobbing quietly, unknown to her, sleep claimed her as its own and all was dark.
His eyes fell shut and reality faded away to the sound of screaming. With the last threads of consciousness, he wondered if that was him.
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not stupid, Ian.”
“I know.”
That was a little odd. He was normally ready to tease me at any opportunity, and I’d given him an easy shot.
"Okay! I see how it is! Let's just ignore that Doug even exists!" Doug shouted, throwing his arms in the air.
(First of all, a whole mood–)
"It's just a scratch. A scratch?! Your arm is off! No tisn't. Yes it is, there on the ground. It's only a flesh wound. A flesh wound? I've had worse. You liar," Lachlan quoted in a mocking voice.
Vankhart blinked, traces of surprise darting over his features before he let go. “Do you want someone else?” He asked mildly (mildly for the Battle God of Aerys Mountain Sect, so more like ‘violently’ for anyone else).
"You’re weaker than a newborn kitten, Greisling.” Vankhart turned to go, but Greisling couldn’t allow him the last word.
“Doesn’t mean I don’t have claws,” he said, tapping his fingers against the whip at his belt. Traces of unholy fire flickered along its chain at his touch, reassuring him that it was just as lethal even without his magic behind it.
"I do not know how." he swallowed and took a deep, raspy breath. "But I do know they will. Because they have to."
Immediately having to flip off his neighbors was not Nas’ favorite way to wake up, but the fact that it was the most recurring was sad.
The tallest building on the peak, it was supported by the vast trunks of petrified trees carved in the forms of graceful women, each one representing one of the Nine Arts. Here a dancer, delicately supporting the roof with a single hand as if it weighed less than a feather; there a poet, brush hovering over the page with drops of amber ink at its tip never to fall.
Harber listened as Janus darted around, shrieking at Kio, "YOU HAVE A GUN? YOU'RE A DOOGGGG! YOU DON'T HAVE THUMBSSS!"
I shook off the thoughts, deciding it was best not to worry - as hard as that was - and keep a clear mind.
I was trapped and alone, the crack in the rock overhead giving just enough light for my eyes to see by.
Her own hair was in desperate need of a good wash, and she quickly moved it to the shoulder away from Sophie, hoping desperately the other girl wouldn’t notice. Not that Sophie was the type of person to care about what other people’s hair smelled or looked like. Not that it should have mattered.
(is that a good oh or a bad oh?)
(Even I have enough tact not to put a bad one. It's the sort of Oohhh you say when your friend has a crush and they walk by.)
I can only hope there will be a day when I can't remember the taste of your lips.
