She stopped. She returned to the switch and flipped it back and forth. She definitely heard something. She had never noticed it before, but there it was. Locke put her safe-cracking ear up to the switch and flipped it a couple more times
A large man, lips sewn shut with black thread, rushed the small room before any of the three could defend themselves. The intruder wore a black steel breastplate molded to the musculature of his chest, marred and scarred as though from a million battles.
Down from Dublin in the drumlins of Downpatrick, a dozen dragonflies do a drowsy dance upon the dew-dressed daffodils, daisies, and delphinia, distressing over departure into dreamland.
The escape would have been so much easier if they simply could have killed The Sergeant…
As a rule, tieflings are best left alone. The descendants of human nobles who bargained with dark powers, they are heirs of an ancient, infernal bloodline. Though now, having no realm of their own…
Feigning sleepy readjustment, Covey felt along her arms, stopping at the raised welts of scratched skin. The slight sting of the scratches along her arms and legs did not bother her but, instead, invigorated, and…
He had a name in his head: Cabal. He assumed it was his name, but he couldn’t be sure. Flooded with questions of identity, past, purpose, he stood bricked in place.
She thought back on the indelicate way Sehanierianna would tug at her auburn tresses (rare against the silver and gold locks of her kith and kin), and…
Besides, at the range at which any combat would occur in this rapidly filling – in bodies, stench, and smoke – common room, a dagger, surreptitiously twisted
Wizards wander through the wisteria wealds of Wales and the Weeping Willow Wood of west…
Lightning Lightfoot, the lazy lumbering lion, lived listlessly and lackadaisically in a lotus-lined, lackluster lighthouse…
The brawl at the tavern had been nasty. Aerys’ scales had protected him from the brunt of the attack, but the softer flesh underneath felt bruised and tender.
It’s a well-known fact that all the best stories start with, “It’s a well known fact…” And, it is a better known fact that the extremely elderly know something we do not. At the age of eighty (quite the young man or woman to any in his nineties)…
She had been eight when the cruel dagger had been thrust into her shaking hand, fingers not yet long enough to wrap the blade’s handle entirely. She peered out of the corner of her eye to the child at attention next…
To truly talk about The Topsy-Turvy Tigers (a tale too terrifically terrifying to tell toddlers), take the time to…