Follower Rests

Dust lifted in puffs unnoticed in the air.

Dun cloth limped from the tabletops. Dancing swirls of light filtered across the space of a several dozen strides from door to wall.

All things turn.

Man shuffled off his elbows, now caked sweet bar-top mush. Cranking his head, a fearsome creaking sounded into the quiet, standing sharp contrast to the quiet, shuffling thumps of the stranger.

Turning was a slow shifting of feet. Light in mote, mote in light splayed. Figures converged; shadows played upon the wall. Dun streaked red.

Tis the season of silence.

Dust settles to the wooden floor.

  • Too much school but not quite so much to be useful.

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