The Peninsula

The Fiction and Poetry Archive of Liana Mir and scribblemyname

Stranger in the Storm

Aug
18

Winter

It was early evening at the great Summer Court, but it was storming outside and already quite dark. The lanterns and chandeliers had already been lit, and there were those who shivered when standing near any of the great windows of the royal hall. It had been winter for a very long time.

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Breath from a Stone

Mar
08
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Teller, Taker (Just the Facts, Ma’am Remix)

Mar
01
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Lost

Feb
07

It was cold out. Winter had never been particularly friendly to the wayfarer in the wilds beyond reach of city or road, let alone to fugitives, fleeing their former masters. Snow had piled deep through every thicket and stretch of the wood, ice coated the river in all but the most rapid sections, and no path was visible in any direction.

In short, Ishalt was lost, which wasn’t a terrible thing in summer when there was food for forage and the only thing that mattered was suitable distance from one’s pursuers. In winter, it could mean life or death to find shelter.

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