Burvington Preparatory Academy of Excellence.
Home of the "Burlie" Boys.
The richest , said to be strongest and some of the most genius minds in all of Great Britain. Home to the 4 most powerful boys (and then some) . They do, say and be who the...
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METHVEN HOLLOW MET THE PAIR WITH MORE LIFE THAN THEY COULD EVER GIVE IT IN RETURN.
The prior moment's awkwardness melted away for Caspian as the festivals' sounds came crashing towards them and the world they entered was surely not the same they had escaped from.
Fire was everywhere.
In archaic styled lanterns, lamps and decorated pitchforks. Real and artificial embers lit the darkening November day with their light enough to shine away the grey clouds from everyone's minds. Ms. Purple haired lady had not met the at the ethereal front gates nor had any of the other performers, not even the morning silence.
Only noise, merriment and the heavy saccharine smells of sugary delights and perhaps violent ends. Native foods and treats that only Methevn could provide, called his name and helped cull the ravenous worry that had suddenly consumed him.
Methven Hollow had metamorphised from the dead town of months ago to a quaint and growing metropolis and the peoples seemed to throw away all humility and meekness as even the townsfolk dressed up along with the town.
Gowns, petitcoats, stalls, shops, games and more all dressed to late 1700's standards, bar the large ferris wheel and mini carnival that sprawled through the town. Lights decorated the shops and windows and doors, all catching thr eyes of visitors, denizens and foreigners alike.
There was no logical way of evading the joviality and why evade it?
And yet, the haunting revelation of prior moments ago beat strongly against the town's united pulse rendering any and all merriment from the peoples nothing but foolish noise.
17-
178,
1788,
1788.
Up until this point, Alifa had relegated the ghost man's appearance to her gifted imagination, a fantasy book she had read but had forgotten the characters. She assumed the forgotten years since had dulled her brain and was the reason for the absence of his name.
Not time.
Not over two centuries of history between them!
That phantom is a real man.
Was.
He existed.
He was real?
How and why had he even appeared to her? That night, in her room? His grisly boils and yellow eyes, the rotten smell of decay she now understood to be his actual flesh,
