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>You still get nightmares
>In fact, as the summer came and went?
>As your place in the world diminished to a small, sad little estate that you fit on your back…
>…hanging onto home by a thread, life slipping between your anxious talons?
>The nightmares got worse
>And sometimes…
>…sometimes you think you’re caught up in one, and you don’t know how to wake yourself up
>Every feather on your body stands on edge, panic locking your body in place like old and rusted gears sticking together, straining to move past one another
>Taking a near-headfirst dive into the sewer?
>Abandoning the roundspark above to save your comrade instead?
>Maybe you made a mistake?
>You make those quite often, as record shows. BIG mistakes, too
>Because maybe you not only killed Gullen
>But yourself as well
>You take an experimental snort at the decrepit air
>All at once, a thick miasma of rot and sewage overwhelms your senses; an oily fog atop the faintest light that your eyes conjure from the dark…
>…unreliable light, which you use as you navigate down the narrow corridors and retention ponds comprising city’s bowels
>Your heart accelerates in your chest. Adrenaline pumps like a firehose through your veins, rendering the sound of your heartbeat into a kick-drum playing in your brain
>BAM
>BAM
“Gullen!?” you call out into the dark
>You then caw once or twice, your signal echoing off the corridors and tunnel walls
>You wait for the response…
>The standard, coded, return ’caw!’ from your kin, like a gift from the Ancestors
>Nothing returns from the dark tunnels, save for the sounds of rats skittering around in the shadows.
>Ancestors, you really lost him?
>Above your job of scout business is protecting the brothers and sisters you scout for!
>This is almost your worst failure yet. There’s no way you can return to Ciril alone and not catch an execution
>Almost
>Because inside of you, a seed of hope — long germinating in the folds of your heart — begins to sprout
>You take off down the long stretch of sewer, eyes barely able to keep up with the darkness all around
>There’s still time to stop this
>There has to be
>You never, ever stop your momentum, your pace quickening with the manic drums POUNDING in your skull
>BAM
>BAM
>A cautious glance over your shoulder confirms that nothing is behind you
>You can’t help but feel
>BAM
>Like you’re being hunted
>BAM
>You’re not going to let this happen, not if you can help it
“Gullen!? I’m here brother! Say something!” you shriek as you tear through the sewers
>You race against the taunting sound of your own voice
>And the speed of the drums escalating in your skull
>Your rifle swings in your grasp, but it’s useless without any ammo
>But your grip on it only tightens as your determination to never leave your weapon behind again only propels you forward
>No more
>You’ve made enough mistakes this evening
>The stench is overpowers your senses, despite the lack of wet sewage
>These channels are too old to contain any waste
>They’re weathered with age; in some places they’ve collapsed inwards, the city’s bones crushing its bowels
>But the smell…
>THE SMELL
>IMAGINE THE SMELL
>The smell remains as thick as morning mist, yet unseen. Its only record of existence is the odor that the years imprinted into the walls
>Like an oil staining a surface sullying it
>Like you
>The weight of your hopelessness is heavy, like a millstone around your neck
>It feels like the remnants of the city above are about to give into the pull of gravity, collapsing in great dusty plumes, and crash down on top of you
>You hate tight spaces like this; you can’t imagine what a bulky bird like Gullen is going through
>You skid to a stop and listen for a sign of life
>You’ll take anything
>A scream
>A caw
>A chirp, a whistle
>Something
>Some record of Gullen’s existence
>Your heart pulses against your sensitive eardrums, wild with fear, the only other sound the hiss of air going in and out of your lungs
>More time spent running
>Nothing to show for it
>You can’t keep this up, you know that, right?
>Your chest heaves for air, muscles sloughed with lactic acid as you sprint around in the depths of the city
“Brother?” you say, jogging, body in agony, voice reduced to a pathetic whisper
>Your voice echoes back at you like a Seminary-yard bully, taunting you with your own desperate words
>”Brother?”
>Your sad voice grows smaller
>Diminishing as it carries your pleading
>Into the dark
>And then
>Silence
>The weight of gravity presses down hard on you
>You want to- no, NEED to sit down and catch your breath
>And shouldn’t you, after all your failures tonight?
>Face it, Elia
>You’re alone down here
>Just as you were always meant to be
>Alone
>Of course, death is optional, but at this point you feel as though it’s an inevitability rather than a choice you’re given; like the leaves of the aspen trees that dot the forested city, bronzing over to gold, then orange, and eventually dying and molting, shedding their autumn colors for threadbare branches
>They have no choice
>It’s nature
>It’s yours to be a failure
>A monster, too
>Mutant
>’Freak’
>Dream walker
>That thing — the fisher anomaly? It’ll be back once it’s done with Gullen
>As true as the Ancestors, it’ll be back for you
>You slump against the wall, letting gravity and exhaustion guide your ass down
>You swipe away frustrated tears
“Feathering idiot I am!” you yell through a sob
>Your eyes squeeze shut, pulsing out tears
“I can’t believe I let this happen to Gullen. He trusted me!”
>You open your eyes again after some time, staring down the length of the sewer
>The channel pales over as your eyes adjust, your sensitive aperture painting moonlight over the dark
>You can see dead ahead of you, in the long-dry sewer channel
>Something resting in the dark
>You approach, sniffling, brimming with self-hatred like a geyser waiting to erupt
>When you bend down to pick up the object in the dark, you gasp
>It’s a feather raven’s feather
>A black feather — longer than your arm
>Gullen’s
>Your heart kicks itself into high gear when you look down the channel and see more feathers, like a breadcrumb trail, leading you into the dark
>Your legs, once spent and sloughed full of lactic acid, churn once more
>Hope kindles in your heart, like stoking the embers of a fire
>But what’s more immediate to you is not the strength of your hope, but the fragility of it — how, by now, it must be all but extinguished
>Even now, you still feel you’re too late
>Sometimes hope is a verb; something you practice, even if you don’t believe
“GULLEN! I AM HERE, BROTHER!” you call out, following the trail of feathers through the sewer tunnels
>The sound of your wrapped talons scraping off centuries old concrete
>The relentless kick drum of your heartbeat, making its way to your skull
>And the silence
>This is a nightmare
>THIS is a nightmare
>Your foot sloshes into something
There’s some kind of viscous fluid in the channel now, making the ground wet down here
>Your talons splash into the moisture — collected rainwater, blood, urine — could be anything. You don’t care
>What matters is finding Gullen, which is the one thing you can’t do
>This trail of feathers must go for miles
>Ancestors, you were supposed to be good at this sort of thing
>Loose, un-preened feathers tear off your body as you tear down the channel, talons plunging into the muck as you dump the last droplets of adrenaline you have into your synapses
>As you run, your keen eyes pick up on more than just the smoothed contours and industrial geometry of the sewers
>It’s the claw marks etched into the walls; the deep gouges left by desperate prey, carved into concrete that catch your attention
>Ancestors, this whole hallways is scarred up — on all sides, too
>You hate to say it, but at least you know you’re probably on the right path
>Some of these could be Gullen’s, even
>A trail of feathers continues to materialize on the floor
>Whether by luck or Ancestor’s grace, these feathers — jostled loose in the violence of the drag — are your one lead to finding Gullen
>You guide yourself with these feathers; almost like Gullen tried to leave you a map and-
>You look down, just for a second, at your gloved talons
>Elia?
>Where are your maps?
>And the demon’s journal you never finished reading?
>You…
>You had the maps tucked under your arms so you could carry your rifle-
>…
>You didn’t, did you?
>You throw a desperate glance behind you, staring into the maw of darkness like looking down the throat of a harvester
>You did
>You lost ‘em
>No leafs of stiff paper to guide you back to the entrance lay behind you
>Just Gullen’s feathers
>And darkness like a wall
>The urge to stop, throw yourself to the floor, and quit, thunders through you
>Why not just close your eyes and sit down for awhile?
>You almost succumb to that bitter weakness within you, like a bum leg, forcing you to limp through every aspect of life
>But, if nothing else, you’re a runner — metaphorically, and literally
>You keep your momentum
“There’ll be time to call myself a feathering idiot after I find Gullen,”
you assure yourself
>Not that it matters what happens when you DO find him. He’s probably already dead, and you will be too
>And that SMELL
>Ancestors, it’s rank down here, where the walls and floor seem to give way and widen up
>What is up ahead, anyway? Are you still going the right way?
>You look down to make sure you’re still on the right path, scanning for feathers
>You’re so busy looking down that you almost don’t see the ledge up ahead
>You finally see it at the last moment, with one talon hanging off the edge
>Just a fraction of a second too late
>A sheer drop materializes in front of you where the trail of feathers stops, your eyes still reeling in an attempt to parse the expanse of open, unmapped darkness before you
>With a squawk, you plummet twelve black feet into the bottom of a sewage retention pond — dry now, but once filled to the brim with waste and refuse
>When you land, you do not land with any grace or composure; instead, you land on your back, your messenger bag beneath you
>Fortunately, your bag is filled with notes, papers, journals, and lascivious drawings, which somewhat cushioned your fall
>”Sister!? Is that you?” Gullen squawks, near to bursting with joy somewhere in the dark
>Your eyes adjust to the absence of light, turning black veils of shadow to milky-white pools of half-light
>The pit you’re in lightens
>Broken industrial concrete, shards of metal line its surface. And one more thing:
>Bones
>A monstrous infinity of bones — long cracked and picked clean — bristle in your artificial light. So many that you’re afraid to move lest you disturb them
>And clothes — little fragments of a person’s life still uneaten
>A lottttt of old demon uniforms, from what you can tell. Most of them are half-digested and regurgitated
>”Sister!? I can-cannot see! Where are you!”
>Gullen’s voice drags your eyes up, towards the ceiling, and you look up
>The bird hangs suspended from the ceiling by his feet, dangling like fly strung up in a spider’s web
>Two of those pale arms hold Gullen upside down — one for each foot
>Another arm snakes in from behind and makes a lunge for Gullen’s throat
>The raven’s snaps the arm out of the air just in time, using his talons to hold off the fisher anomaly
>”Sister! I cannot hold back this beast for much longer!” he shrieks. “Help me!”
>He looks like he’s been fighting against strangulation for a while now. Feathers drift off his body as he thrashes, upside down
>Your eyes trace the massive pale arms down to their source
>Ohhhh, disgusting…
>At the base of the retention pod sits a huge, slavering mouth, several feet wide
>No face
>No eyes, no nose
>Just a human’s mouth — one with cracked pink lips, never replenished over the centuries it’s lived down here
>The fisher anomaly flexes and groans with hunger, its length almost five feet across, fixed into a huge crack in the ground
>Sharp, hungry breaths huff out of lungs unseen, buried several feet beneath ancient concrete and dirt
>The razor-sharp fangs that line the fisher anomaly’s mouth separate meat from bone, but you get the sense that it can’t take in a whole raven who refuses to be strangled
>At least, not while the raven is fighting so hard
>Hence the need to strangle its prey
>The anomaly’s four pale arms shoot from out of its trembling throat, like snakes slicked over in pale-blue visca from your missed shot
“I am here, brother!” you call, standing, panicking, already lost as to what you even can do here. “J-Just keep fighting! I’ll try to get you loose!”
>Panic floods your senses
>Your heartbeat pounds in your temples
>No ammo
>No plan
>What were you think-
>A rush of air hits your ears before you feel it against your feathers
>On instinct, you duck down onto one knee, into the bones and torn clothes, your gloved hands at the back of your neck like a shield
>In one vicious sweep, a free pale arm glides right over your head, loosing feathers on your body like a sweep of leaves in the autumn wind
>Ancestors that was close
>You turn around to see the arm scour the retention pond, tossing up handfuls of old bones and clothes in its search for the source of your voice
>Okay
>Okay
>A plan condenses in your mind
>Gullen is blind down here in the dark
>The fisher anomaly has no eyes, so it’s also blind
>…
>You’re the only one who can see!
>You spread your weight across your talons, making yourself level across her body
>And slowly, one foot after another, you make your way towards the mouth of fisher anomaly
>Old bones and torn clothes litter the floor, like little landmines of disquiet which you’re careful to step around
>All the while, the anomaly’s free hand roams, scouring through brittle bone for a small bird
>And when you get to this thing’s mouth what are you going to do?
>You have your knife at your hip, talons if you have to
>And the flare pistol?
>Always loaded
>With your head down, eyes glued to the floor, you move with as much silence as possible, inching close to the fisher anomaly’s mouth, you can see its teeth — yellowed from age — glisten against the pale light
>You lift one of your wrapped talons to take a closer step
>You hear a sickening retching sound above
>Your heart stops
>You turn your gaze up and keep moving by mistake, distracted-
>Gullen must have lost his wrestling match
>You watch, helpless and shaking, as the greasy hand of the fisher anomaly tightens around the swallow of Gullen’s throat
>-You accidentally give a solid kick to a dried femur, taking a clumsy step forward
>The femur clatters into the darkness, the old bones rattling like landmines of disquiet
>In a snap you see an arm speeding in your direction, failing wildly through the air
>There’s a hollow swoosh of air as the arm lashes out at you
>You squawk in a sudden panic and drop, hard, onto your belly
>The arm sweeps over you, sending a current of stale, stinky air rushing over you
>But you don’t stop — you roll left, onto old bone and discarded clothing, as the fisher anomaly’s cloying hand reaches down again, this time drilling hard into the space you once occupied
>You stand quickly and quietly, heart pounding against the hollow of your ribcage louder than gunshot
>BAM
>BAM
>BAM
>You draw a few hollow, exasperated breaths as you desperately try to get air into your lungs without making any sound
>Time is not on your side. You need a plan, and you need it NOW
>You look towards Gullen again, still locked in a battle with one arm as he has the life choked out of him
>Your eyes, equipped for the dim, notice something about this arm
>It’s covered in visca
>From earlier, when you tried to shoot it?
>…And missed?
>Praise the Ancestors, you missed! You missed, and you covered the beast with beautiful, slippery, flammable visca
>You shuck your gloves with a sharp flick of the elbow and dig into your pockets
>What pocket was it in?
>You scramble, scratch, search, and pat every pocket you can
>Feathers, you can’t find it-
>The WHAP of your gloves hitting the concrete draws the free hand to you with whip-like force
>This time though, the arm passes in low, and though you manage to jump backwards, landing on your tail feathers…
>…the hand of the fisher anomaly — cold, wet, and strong — wraps around your leg
>You shriek in terror, still trying to find the flare pistol
>Wait
>DUMMY
>It’s on your hip
>Your free talon grasps around the handle of your flare pistol, right as the fisher anomaly reels you towards its slavering mouth
>You caw in pain as the anomaly drags you through piles of jagged old bones, concrete, and twisted metal
>You try to keep your hands on the flare gun as you twist and thrash to break free
>With a shaky draw you lift the flare gun squint, pointed towards a spot on the fisher anomaly’s arm around Gullen that looks especially wet with visca
>This is it
>Now or never
>No way you miss twice, right?
>Your fingers curls around the trigger, and-
>Before you can squeeze the trigger, you’re hoisted high, high into the air
>A shocked chirp escapes you as your world goes upside down
>Your bag slips from your shoulders and falls to the ground spewing a few odd drawings or notes
>Oh feathers
>Gullen, suspended next to you, lets out a retched choking sound as he finally goes limp after losing his battle
“Gullen!” you call, as if your voice could bring him back to consciousness. “Keep fighting! I’m going to try to get us free!”
>No response
>Your then pulled away from Gullen, lowered, left to dangle above the mouth of the fisher anomaly, its maw slavering with hunger…
>…as it lowers you ever closer
>And right as you start to thrash, bristling with life, is when the fisher anomaly uses its now free hand to cut short your effort
>You bend and thrash around trying to avoid the appendage now shooting towards you
>You dodge it once with a harde shake to the right, but you don’t think you cak keep this up
>Desperately searching for visca, you aim the pistol again, but it’s hard when you’re upside down trying to dodge what is effectively a tentacle
>It’s no use, isn’t it?
>The fisher anomaly finds its target at last
>You feel a wet hand cinch around your throat, squeezing the blood and air from your neck
>Instantly, air becomes a sorely needed commodity
>On instinct, you go for a panicked gasp
>You can’t get any air
>YOU CAN’T GET ANY AIR
>With just seconds of consciousness remaining, you can no longer afford to hesitate or wait for a clear shot, like praying for rain on a cloudless day
>Your finger squeezes around the trigger
>Always loaded?
>Your arm trembles; your vision clouds over, and you’re forced to squint just to maintain some degree of clarity
>The pressure in your temples is immense; you feel like your head is about to pop, like an overfilled balloon
>BAM
>All you hear is a slow, steady drum
>BAM
>And you’re afraid to even look over at Gullen and see his sorry state
>BAM
>The fisher anomaly tightens its hand around your throat and draws you down to its mouth, awaiting your unconsciousness
>BAM
>The last of your breath hisses out of you in a panicked shriek that never leaves your throat
>The flare pistol feels slippery and fragile in your shaky hands, like you no longer have the composure to use it
>It takes every ounce of what you have left in you, all the adrenaline in your body, to keep your flare pistol steady as you train the weapon on your target, undulating like a snake:
>The arms covered in visca
>Your sight narrows, with unconsciousness a few seconds behind
>This is it
>Now or never
>No way you miss twice, right?
>A wet arm swings into your sights for a second…
>And blackness overtakes you
>You’re not even sure you’re conscious when you pull the trigger
>The last thing you remember is the sound of a hollow KA-CHUNK
>Followed then by a sharp, brittle hiss that swells in your ears like a swarm of locusts
>Then,
>What you most remember is the feeling of peace for once; no longer a slave of anxiety, trauma, tragedy
>But, instead, light, like a mote of dust in a sunbeam, carelessly drifting through your cabin windows on a sunny afternoon in late spring
>Like you’re floating
>In the tongue of your kin, the phrase is, eset merkas, translated in English to ‘I am called to the sky’
>However
>You, Elia Longfeather, are not called to the sky today
>Purgatory still has you chained
>When you come back to consciousness, you and Gullen are in free fall together
>Your eyes blink open and-
>BAM!
>You smash into a pile of bones, your messenger bag no longer able to cushion your fall like last time
>Sharp pain roars in your body as you lay there, stunned by the impact and time spent flirting with unconsciousness
>Gullen, maybe the lucky one, lands in a heap next to you
>The room brightens with phosphorescent red as your flare’s primary fuel source sizzles in the corner of the retention pond
>You… you missed?
>But-
>A flaming arm — dripping with molten visca and burnt flesh — comes hurtling right at you as the fisher anomaly thrashes in a wild panic
>You make the dodge again by rolling yourself on top of Gullen, sprawled out across his chest to protect him
>Gullen, however, does not stir at your touch
>The room stinks of acrid, burnt flesh, a nauseating scent of fat put to the alchemical torch
>Without vocal chords, the fisher anomaly can only groan as the fire spreads down the length of its one arm
>The other three arms flail around and attempt to smother the fire, to brush away the visca and stop the inevitability
>It’s no use
>One-by-one the arms go up in flames, each one like a demon put to the stake, flesh purified by heat
>But you’re not paying attention to the anomaly’s death throes
>You can only watch over Gullen, eyes dazzled with brilliant flare light
>The fisher anomaly retracts its arms into its mouth, which slams shut — an attempt to smother the fire
>It doesn’t work
>The visca spreads to its throat, and the fisher anomaly’s greasy maw catches from within as it spews jets of flame from its mouth
>Perhaps you didn’t miss
>As the fisher anomaly burns from inside out, you turn your focus onto your comrade
“Brother, the day is ours,” you say as you give him a light shake by the shoulder
>You pause and wait with anxious breath for, waiting for Gullen’s eyes to spring back open with lucidity
>He remains still
“Brother?” you say, nerves ratcheting up in your chest
>You undo a bit of his armor — down his breast — and put your ear to his chest
>You’re no healer or sage, but you can hear well, even for a crow
>The faint tick of Gullen’s heart registers in your ears like a struggling clock
>You could explode with joy
>It’s maybe the best sound you’ve heard in your life until this point
>The metronome of another’s heartbeat
>As if on cue, moments later Gullen’s eyes flutter open, bright like gold haycoins
>”Elia?” he says as his unsteady eyes dart around in his skull
>He raises a weak arm to shield his eyes from the flare’s diminished strobe
>You grip his shoulders with your un-gloved talons
“Brother!” you shout, almost too excited to contain. “I am here, brother! And that thing is gone, hopefully still burning to death.”
>His shock flows into you like a sudden riptide of emotion
>Instincts tells you to let go of Gullen; you tell instincts that you’re better off sticking your hand into the breakfast fire again
>So you hang on, anchored to him, scared that in an instant he’ll keel over and leave you
>Alone
>With all your faults
>With Ancestor’s grace, Gullen’s shock washes out of him, leaving him awake, albeit exhausted
“Praise the Ancestors, you’ve returned to us!” you say, excite-
>-he rolls onto his hands and knees and retches
>After a few moments of puking, his breath steadies,
>And with your help, he stands up, wiping his beak with the back of his palsm
>”You’re… you’re unbelievable,” he says, still gathering himself, talon against his temple, “A crow with the heart of a raven is a rare thing, Elia. I cannot believe we are both still alive.”
>A tired smile breaks across your face
“I-It was pure luck, honestly,” you say back bashfully
>”If it was luck, it was good luck. You saved me. Thank you, sister. You and I almost ended up like these bones here, but it is by your hand that we still draw breath,” he says as he kicks at a leg bone with a gentle nudge. “The flare was nice work, by the way. I feel like I’m at a harvest festival, except underground.”
“You don’t mean the fireworks they always put on during the festivals?” you say as you look around
>The shadows of the discarded bones seem to grow fifty feet tall in the phosphine light, their outlines dancing with the wane of the flare’s fuel source
>”The fireworks,” Gullen says in a longing voice — one drifting backwards in time to memories of harvest festivals among the trees, fireworks bursting in the sky, rich with color
>You feel immeasurably small compared to the shadow of yourself, like your authentic self stands twelve-feet tall down here, and you’re just a little girl wandering somewhere she shouldn’t be
>The fisher anomaly seethes and groans as thick clouds of smoke billow out of its maw, accompanied by the occasional tendril of flame when it opens its pained mouth
“Come on,” you say as you nudge Gullen at the back with your elbow. “You would have done the same for me, right?”
>The flare and sizzles, lonesome and loud
>Gullen turns to look at you, his posture rigid and proud; the face of a man who believes fervently in his cause
>”I would,” he says, eyes narrowed to slits as he stares at you
>”I’d do the same for any of our kin. It pains me already to think my weakness almost cost you your life tonight,” he throws a glance to the side, embarrassed
>Wellll
>Let’s not talk about how you misread the map and lied about it
>Gaps in your understanding of the demon’s language show… sometimes
>You opt for a truce
“Think not of it, Gullen. I’m just glad that thing didn’t get to finish choking the life out of you.”
>Gullen feels around his throat with a delicate touch
>You can see the angry marks pressed into his feathers — right around the collarbone, where the angry lines are the deepest
>”It nearly did. I don’t know how long I was out for; all I remember was this tremendous pressure in my skull. I… I did not even feel the terror that comes with death. I felt…strange… peaceful, like I was being lifted out of this rank sewer and into the sky.”
>”Next thing I know I see you, and the feeling of someone kicking my head in,” he says with a slight chuckle. “But that was not you kicking me.”
>You smile back
“C’mon Gullen, your skull is so thick there’s no way you’d feel it if I kicked your head,” you joke
>Gullen smiles at that
>You and Gullen pick at the piles of bones for your things — ammunition, notes from your tossed bag, and rations
>Gullen helps by grabbing some of your notes off the pond-floor
>”Your skin,” Gullen says, eyes narrowing as he reads your work “Is like a canvas; stretched across bone and corded muscl-”
>You snap your poem — a poem you remember writing about a demon you once saw on patrol — out of Gullen’s hands
>Shame burns hot on your face
“T-that is just a n-note about-”
>Gullen cuts you off
>”I figured you were a poet, but a lover, too?” he smirks. “There is a bird in Ciril you pine for?”
>You stare at him, wide-eyed with shock
>He thinks this is about one of your kin?
>A bird?
>Sure
“I… yes. There is,” you say, turning your back to Gullen as you stuff your bag full of poems and drawings
>”Who? Maybe I know them!” Gullen says, peaking over your shoulder at your ‘art’
>Your blush only grows stronger as you clasp your bag shut
>”I- I cannot say. He is a crow of incredible beauty and skill, though.”
>Bleh
>That’s not your type
>…Actually, what is your type?
>Gullen only nods and smirks harder, like he now knows your ‘secret’
>”Do not fret, sister. Even if you are a little haywild, I will not tell.”
“I will tell you when we return to Ciril. I think you know him,” you reply with a lie, hoping to end this conversation
>It’s bad enough he saw your poetry
>Hopefully he never sees the drawings
>Eventually, the two of you climb the nearby service ladder out of the pit
>”Do you know where you’re going?” Gullen asks as the two of you set off down the tunnels
>This time, however, you’ll try honesty
“No,” you say with a hesitant sigh. “Not anymore. Not since I went off to find you.”
>Gullen doesn’t seem to mind
>”It is alright. What say we take the first exit we find and see where the Ancestors led us?”
“It’ll be good to smell fresh air again,” you say, agreeing
>When you find a way out of the sewers, the first thing you hear is birdsong
Oliver Hart
Author of Foxing, Leaves of Fall, Liquid Courage, Beating the Heat, A Red Winter, Weber’s Gambit, and many other stories. He primarily writes hmofa, but dabbles in most genres. Interests include, writing, reading, technology, and music.
Stories: Foxing, The Leaves of Fall