60th Spring, 512 AV
It was a dark and stormy night. No, really it was. It said so right up in the sky, the words traced in fluffy, illusionary cloud matter as a light drizzle -oh the horror- had it's way with the city of Alvadas. In the day. I could go on and describe and describe but, frankly, that would be such a fluff-riddled farce. So here's the abridged version: There were puddles. Puddles are wet. When people step in puddles, they get wet too. More rain, more puddles, more wet feet. It's a vicious cycle of triviality; an Ouroboros of utter banality. Maybe we could say something about how it didn't matter whether the rain was true skywork or a product of illusion, or how, regardless, it fit right into the many, daily wonders of Alvadas, or how, in a dark, dark alley, a little girl lay slumped and battered and too broken to ever move again, waiting for an end that wouldn't come quite fast enough.
...Wait, that last one. Let's start from that last one, rewinded a bit, from the viewpoint of Mr. End that wouldn't come quite fast enough, whose overly long name either bespeaks unbearable agony that can only be solved with death...or a little boy who really needs to run faster. Ya know, get out a little more.
Okay, let's start:
"Hello, my name is Anton." squeaked, well, who else?
WIP
...Wait, that last one. Let's start from that last one, rewinded a bit, from the viewpoint of Mr. End that wouldn't come quite fast enough, whose overly long name either bespeaks unbearable agony that can only be solved with death...or a little boy who really needs to run faster. Ya know, get out a little more.
Okay, let's start:
"Hello, my name is Anton." squeaked, well, who else?
WIP
