This Textured Darkness – Page 9

This Textured Darkness, #34

Oren Hunter. Mothers used his name to frighten wayward children.

He’d felt well enough to plough his wife’s belly with a son.

The fever passed, only to leave him chilled and dreaming he was fighting on bloody snow.

Until three days ago,” Milo pointed to the skull, “This was a man we called the Poet.”

Milo Janket, or Milo the Lantern as he was called in Marsh Wool, stood before the throne, trying not to soil his breeches.

Milo Janken, or Milo the Lantern as he was called in Marsh Wool, stood before the throne, trying not to soil his breeches.

He’d caught the eye of a buxom barmaid who asked for coin.

Below him sprawled Casoria, the stuff of which legends were made.

He was being branded; the air smelled as it did when they marked the wild horses in the spring.

“My source tells me the bark is odd. Flesh colored with specks of red. The shoots spring up, only to die.”