It was a cold and dreary night, one of many as of late, and the wind howled as the rain fell lightly on the newly painted lane. The streets were nearly empty, save for the few stray dogs that made their homes amongst the scrap and a dark and slender silhouette that stood immobile near the center of the street. The mist circled her feet and the rain soaked her tattered clothes but the figure did not move, nor utter any word. In her hand she held a sword of unknown make, its reddish steel and jagged rim shown faintly in the night. And as I watched, the darkness around her stirred and jittered, as if nervous, or afraid, and to my surprise a second form emerged from the depths of that darkness. It leaned in close, over her shoulder and whispered softly "Rosewood, it's time."
|Current Residence: Managua Nicaragua|