Intensive Care Unit of the GodsI swear, it's not safe to browse this subreddit unless you're hooked up to an intensive care unit of the gods.
"Sir! Sir wake up."
The wise man jerked forward in his bed, an orderly standing over him with a concerned look on her face.
"Are you ok? Were you having a bad dream?"
The sweat still clung to his brow, but his breath quickly calmed. What was that dream? Brief colorful tendrils faded quickly when he awoke, but the beating in his chest always lasted longer. He attempted to focus on the warmth, on the colors. His brow furrowed, but her tender voice pulled his focus into the present.
"Are you alright?"
He nodded, gave a small smile. The relief in her angelic eyes was immediate. Reminded him of something fleeting. Something warm. He tried to focus on her eyes, on the shape of her face, but they seemed indistinct, wrong and yet somehow calming. With the smallest of movements, she coaxed him back into his pillows, drawing the comforter up to his chin.
"Sleep well, sir. Call if you ne
In which whisperingsage wrote a letterThe sage leaned back in his office chair, hat bushed back off his brow. Smoke curled toward the ceiling, glowing softly in the dwindling twilight. His finely crafted retort had been mailed, his work for the day complete. He could hear his secretary shuffling papers, she too would soon be leaving for the day. Then a pause of silence.
His office door opened on poorly oiled hinges. He looked up from his reverie, expecting the usual despondent blond visage. Instead, two dark suits greeted him, one bearing a familiar orangered envelope, the only splash of color in the darkening room.
"How did you "
"You've wandered into a world you don't know, Mr. Whisper. A world where names are sacred. Do you know what a name means?"
"Who who are you?"
"You've taken names in vein, Mr. Whisper. You've taken your own. Besmirched it, and thrown aside as a tarnished pseudonym. And then you've gone for others. You know who I am.
Lost ShipThe wooden vessel drifted upon the glassy stillness, suspended above and below twinkling stars. They brought no comfort, and served no guide. Only creaking timbers broke the silence.
Eyes stared unto the horizon, as if by force of will another could be seen. Months had passed without sign. Still she searched, each night digging its talons further into her bones.
The crew still served as in mourning, following her ever-more desperate orders. She had heard whispers, though nopony would have directed them to her face. Whispers of madness. Of a futile quest. Shushed as she entered the galley, their eyes avoiding contact.
She took her meals alone in their cabin, now. Where the whispers wouldn't reach her. Where she could see the candy locket and bloodshot eyes staring back from the mirror. Even they were filled with accusation, with reflection. She should not have sent them on a foolish errand, should have gone instead, should have overruled her protests, should have listened. And now there
For ScootalooWhere can you run, spun upon dashed hope:
In arms of friends in folly, seeking path by dwindle-light?
A rainbow mare discarded, still sisters not regarded,
keep self-heart closed and guarded, basket hid from shown.
All skies grey above untamed, wings too weak to roam.
Alas, a past entombed.
And no canon's guide.