Recent content by Myrryn

The boy stood before the witch for an awkward moment, arm extended, the offered mug in hand. He stared, uncertain, for Myrryn did not reach for the drink. Her lips curved with the faintest twitch of amusement, for she could sense him utterly: the nervous swallow, the shuffle of his worn boots...

Hooves muffled by moss and wet leaves sounded first, slow and unhurried, as though the rider felt no need to announce herself loudly into this place of rot and silence. The mare was black as spilled ink, making the pale rider upon her seem a ghost made flesh, drifting through the fog like winter...