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The Gift: Chapter Eleven: PetsThe Dunmer’s home had once been the dwelling of a Telvanni wizard, but the old magician had died one night of natural causes- for a blade in a man’s chest naturally ended his life. After the mess had been cleaned and the summoned abominations had been dealt with, the dark elf had settled in.
It was a spacious home, built into a rising hill so that the wizard’s lab- the largest room- gracefully protruded from the side. The Dunmer had little use for magic, so the room was converted to a training arena. His many weapons, collected over two hundred years, hung from the walls and his “trophies” from his favorite battles and kills lined the shelves of his “office”.
Bedrooms that had once been the living quarters to novice mages lined the hallways and most had been turned into storage. The Dunmer had, of course, kept the master bedroom for himself and decorated it to fit his tastes. But his favorite rooms were the
The Gift: Chapter Ten: DiscoveryA tall Dunmer in a dark orange tunic adorned with deeply colored half spheres and a matching Mohawk strode fearlessly through the moonlit ashlands. His gray hand rested confidently on the hilt of a beautifully crafted ebony kitana, the gleam of enchantment rippling across its surface. Many a foe had met their end on its black edge, their blood dripping from the point, and it thirsted for more.
Much like its owner. The dark elf’s nighttime stroll was not a walking holiday. He was thirsty, but not desperately so. He simply preferred to maintain a regular feeding schedule. The problem was, that food had become hard to come by recently. Something was scaring prey off and he did not appreciate the competition.
So, tonight he was putting an end to whatever blighted creature had invaded his hunting territory and, perhaps, find some dinner on the side. He had been craving ashlander…
His pale eyes- the color of kwama milk- scan
hey newton, gravity's flawedi.
starting anew from the flutter
and the sputter of lungs.
a vacant sea filled with feathers
and tumultuous clatter,
ribs in a treacherous pattern
resembling exiting rungs.
i want to wrestle the angels,
your tendency is the ladder.
involved with full indiscretion,
trading lazy for lace.
unspool the curse of the long-
limbs in a languorous flexion
i like the stab of the ankles,
you need the curves intersected.
opting to cull my extents
with trans-dimensional vigor.
spent my dysphoric corrections
on reconnecting lax ends.
lips in a spurious accent
feign a passionate rigor.
i tie myself to the anchor,
you extricate and ascend.
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