Little Missy Muffet comes from a peticular family: human from a mother, spider from a father, she knows her nursery rhyme by heart, and arrives at Monster High slowly, carried by the spidery strangeness of her childhood. But the relationship between...
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˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚ ˚₊𓆩༺🕷༻𓆪₊˚
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There were two things supporting the very foundations of a Jekyll and Hyde's dwelling. Everything was Jekyll and Hyde, down to the bony timbers of the attics, down to the cellars crammed with the thirst for dark and light. Then, because everything was Jekyll and Hyde, life was a puzzle where each piece showed the picture that had to be made.
When Jackson's mother left her job, a round that had become an emergency and a seasonal torrent, she made sure she had a particular scope for booking high-strength cases. The Burns had offered, but not always - they didn't always understand. These secrets, of his mothers and their families, which each preserved with fairness in their branches of lineage, went to places often conquered by normality, but the other rooms were strategically employed so that, despite the promiscuity, each could have a space more or less apt to conceal or customize, accidentally or not.
The mansions and modest housings of this street had complacent secret passages, and excellent malleable curiosities, reserved for the authorities of more ancient forces. As far as ancient witchcraft pits, living yet empty tombs, resources seemingly waiting for the end of time to emerge... Their dwelling benefited from an ancient network of controls, or some sort of tiny geoliths converted into relic oblivion, leading perhaps either into the corridors of the Moania Cemetery, or into the more minor Catacombs of New Salem, surrounding a deaf and blind swathe of the Refuge. Over there was this almost parched doorway screaming with affliction, smelling of the paws of mold and old reinforced clocks, leading outside.
He had never felt safer than when darkness had enveloped and inhabited him, when the world's lightning seemed to disappear, or nothing monster or human existed in those veins. Perhaps Holt had been right, in a way?
Darkness, what's that? You see, you get used to it, you look at it, and that's it!
He was frustrated to the point of exhaustion; still, nothing as expected ? Of course, sure enough, Holt had moved his heaven-shredding, vaulting sounds away, so this time, it was just... him.
