GRAVEYARD SIRENGRAVEYARD SIREN by gliovampire
The story of a widow who visits the graveyard every night and tries to find her husband among the spirits wandering there...
The Celestial GuardianAndes entered the grove with an ominous stare. The eerie greens and browns of the thick forest canopy swayed gently among the high gale like some solemn ritual. A pool rippled on the far corner of the grove, showering the dewy grass with rainbows of blurred water vapor. The high moon provided scant light among the shrouded silhouettes of trees and bushes, sending a linear wave of cold fear tracing down Andes' spine. He carefully dropped a hand to his scabbard and entered the grove.The Celestial Guardian by Courier2001
A thick smell brought his cautious approach to a halt as abruptly as a thunderclap. Something gave the young man pause, something faintly sour like decaying flesh. His hand hovered idly above his sword's hilt, unable to make the final descent and withdraw his steel blade. Andes felt as if he was drowning. His lungs strained to expand and inhale the life oxygen that his body was so desperately in need of. Swirling, shadowy tendrils leaped into being and traced along the forest canopy, sinuously circling the y
Chapter 2: Small ProblemsChapter 2: Small Problems by BATTLEFAIRIES
Hulda's skewer with the sausages had fallen into her little campfire, and she didn't think she had any left.
Only a day after she'd departed on her quest, rain and cold had her reconsider whether rushing out the door in fear of ink-stained Meldrys' reaction like that had been a good idea. She was short a pair of extra socks, her gloves were two left ones and with the sausages gone, all she had left now was dry crackers.
She didn't even like crackers all that much.
She hadn't seen Fundinn that day yet, either. The familiar probably sensed Hulda's bad mood and wisely kept his distance. Or perhaps he knew about the spoiled sausages – while technically a carrion bird himself, Fundinn had a deep-rooted fear of getting eaten. Instinctively, Hulda knew him to be close, however.
Falling pine-needles and angry squawking overhead confirmed this for her. It would appear that Fundinn had gotten himself in a scrap – not wanting to share his perch with a squirrel or woodpecker again, per