Before Cyprus was born, there had been a proper schoolteacher in Serafina. A woman straight from the capital, or somewhere close enough to count.
He jogged down the trail to the temple, ignoring the windows of the apothecary shop. The grove was shaken clean to its bones from winter. When Lonan knocked on the door, all the birds inside—crows, seagulls, martins, finches, and swallows—exploded into a ruckus. Wind-catchers clacked wooden music on either side of his head.
Every now and again I'm just going to need to share album covers. I had to gush about Sonata Arctica's "The Ninth Hour" last time, but now I have to gush about Sonata Arctica's "Stones Grow Her Name." I mean, look at it.
So today we're having the equivalent of a Class Movie Day here on Phantasmagorium. In the spirit of rest and relaxation--and extreme discomfort--I thought we'd watch "Possibly in Michigan," a ten-minute short film directed by Cecelia Condit.
"I told you, I'm not a priestess." Shardae shot up, every bone in her fist pronounced black and rattling with dark magic. Arsemia dissipated lazily into ashes, eddying outwards.
Her first battle came only two days later. A gang of straggling Demons fell on them, rising from hills of mulch. They had no choice but to stop and stand their ground.
Black smoke bled through the window, billowing over Shardae’s bed in a great cloud. Shardae backed away as it spilled from the sheets to the tile, and a lounging shape began to take form.