Fantasy-Mystery
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Carmiabell Goldmoon Locks is under an ancient curse that threatens to collapse her existence if she does not source the creature that laid it upon her.
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On an easy-going autumnal Monday morning, the last thing Carmiabell's ill...
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The drunk must have been an addict—he could literally trade his kidney for a jag of beer, and in the same way, he could trade their secret to someone else. Filtering their words was what they needed to do.
“Clear this table for me,” he uttered, nodding of on the backrest of the chair a moment later.
“Wilfred!” Simon called, as Carmiabell and Phoebi broomed his table.
For a Wilfred, his parents must have seen a bright future for him, but frankly the name they should have given him would have been one like knucklehead or wet sock.
He seemed to be a red dreamer evaluating by the lantern flames, but the life he chose for himself was nothing compared to what nature had given to him in childhood.
He sprang to life rubbing off a lump of saliva that had already made its way out of his mouth, unhygienically. “What? We're is he?”
God help they don't lose their minds.
His room was like a garbage container, throwing the things from the table everywhere and anywhere made no difference. They left two lanterns; one on the far right of the table and the other on the far left.
“Find me a red file with plain sheets,” without further say, he nodded off. Again.
Was he even conscious of his words?
Simon sat on the table—like a supervisor—and watched as the four spread to seek it. Finding a file in such a room sounded like a serious journey of struggling to dodge madness but Phoebi found it in no time.
“Got it,” she shouted.
This time Wilfred did not wait for Simon's calling. He got up and stretched his back, bones cracking as if he was breaking them.
After an alcohol-filled sigh, he took the file and plucked out four sheets after which he took, Mrs Tuth’s diary, opened a random page, and placed it under them.
He spread the sheets carefully as if it needed a whole calculous formula to calculate the right position and angle of each sheet.
Both his shaking hands raised to a short distance above the sheets as the lantern flames danced in tunes without an explanation of how on Ellialand wind was blowing into the air-tight, transparent glass.
He closed his eyes and the vigor of the dance stopped abruptly, the flames erecting like a pillar.
As he began mouthing inexplicable words, more silence swallowed them, the flames rising higher.
It wasn't a short verse, and suddenly as each verse passed, their senses of hearing were sharpened or everything else was becoming silent but his lips motion. Carmiabell could almost hear his words but gibberish was not a language she spoke.
The flames were becoming violently long such that they were about to burn the roofs of their stricture.
Everything else started like a mere tremble; the ground shaking with everything on it. His lips moved faster and words became louder.
