Author: ysgrifen

Slisork, son of Usmirx, clambers deftly over the rocky outcrop delineating the southern edge of The Abyss, the Diamond Sword of Besmirched the Elder in one taloned hand. His shell-phone rings. Plucking it from his cloak pocket, he snaps, “Yes. What now?” “Stand-by, I have S’tan on the line,” says a voice sounding remarkably like…

As was the practice in those superficially gentler times, Fletcher Brunestadt introduced himself to his fellow traveller as he sat alongside her, midway in the serried ranks of seats, conveniently adjacent to the bell-push, an expediency he found apposite in some circumstances. Alighting a moving bus carried some peril in icy weather, and his art…