Nothing will change if you don't take that first step forwards. So take it. What could go wrong?
It is a known fact that power in witches builds. The older the family, the stronger they will be. First born are usually weaker than the second born, and the pattern repeats the more children a witch has. Seventh born, the rarest, are often the strongest. However, witch families rarely exceed three children, and there has been no documented cases of numbers greater than seven. - Grokhek, genealogist
By Drake3 years ago in Fiction
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It’s a classic tale. For many travelers, the sight of such a light would bring a feeling of relief. Do not be fooled. Many creatures have learned how to lure humans to their doom this way. In cases where abandoned houses have welcoming lights, stay on the path and keep your silver close. There are monsters out there that you do not want to face. - Traveler, name unknown, before disappearing the next night.
By Drake4 years ago in Horror
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Neither were their fairies, or vampires, or all other sorts of creatures that seem whimsical and mysterious until you meet them. I assume they came to the Valley like you did, migrating from an area that couldn’t support them. I assume they left for the same reason. But whatever their reasons for leaving, there are no more dragons in the Valley, no more fairies or vampires or monsters. All that is left is land and resources … and you. Hungry, homeless, with a prize before you.
By Drake4 years ago in Fiction
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Once upon a time it was a kingdom of elves, beautiful, elegant. Now look at it. Nothing but a place of ruin.”
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. If you trace the records back far enough, it was once a human settlement. But that was a long time ago, before the great split and our worlds fractured. Now the Valley belongs to the dragons, and humans can only be found in the remaining architecture. - Prof. Eathe, Historian
Ice slips through my veins, flooding my limbs till the tips of my fingers grown numb. My breath comes out in clouds. The frost hangs in the air, glimmering, quickly being whipped away from the growing wind. It presses against my face, snags on my clothes and tangles in my hair. Twisting bands of power and air that weigh heavy on my chest. Breathe. I can’t breathe. Still, I forge my path forwards, words tripping from numb lips.
Feet thud against grass and ground. The impacts send vibrations through the earth and to my roots below. Everything runs. Squirrels, rabbits, deer, foxes. A human running isn’t odd, although this part of the woods has not seen human activity in a long time. Our fruits are not meant for human hands. That is an honor reserved for the gods.
Running is something often felt, if distantly. Feet thudding against grass and ground, the impacts sending vibrations through the earth and my roots below. Everything runs. Squirrels, rabbits, deer, foxes. A human running wasn’t odd, although this part of the woods tended to see human activity less. Our fruit was not meant for human hands. We were only supposed to bear fruit for the gods who’d crafted us.
With a grunt of effort, I lifted the box onto the table, setting it down as gently as possible. It was heavier than I’d expected. Who would have thought a box of pictures could be so heavy my arms hurt? Then again, I wasn’t the strongest of people. With a heavy sigh, I pushed the box further onto the table and leaned against it. I took a moment to breathe. God knows I needed it. The past week and a half had been rough.
For most of my life, summer was hot days and cool nights studded with flying stars. I remember the nights the best, when the sun would set, and the sky would darken into that gray haze that softens every shadow and line. The brilliant golds and greens would be replaced by cooler colors. The cut grass seemed less prickly at these times, although that might have been because I was distracted by the sight.
By Drake4 years ago in Earth
It was a sea tossed storm that greeted the view from the crow’s nest. The waves were wild, white tipped and violent, battering against the boat’s wooden sides with every breath. The sky was layered in swaths of gray and black. The rain poured down in sheets, obstructing vision, and completely drenching the crow’s nest’s occupant
Gold, it coated everything. Green leaves edged with it. Grass blades doused in it. Tree bark with dark cracks speckled with it. The whole world painted gold with the sunrise; it looked expensive enough to sit in a vault, hidden behind locked doors and security guards. But the sight was free for whomever would risk the long walk.
