summer, year 2

Vyette and Kazgut had come to this strange land from elsewhere; carrying with them past lives better left unsaid. Settling in Perth of the Highlands, they settled into a little cottage beside the vast wood and began, again. With a teeming, overgrown garden and graves to dig - it is a scene of macabre domestic bliss.

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I. • wicked, wasting garden with Vyette
The grim and the wraith go gathering for ingredients and explore their new home.

II. • dark, crossing over with Thea
A chance encounter with a stranger leads to unsettling conversation.

III. • teeth, tea time with Vyette
Returning home early, the gravedigger treats the wraith to a foraged feast.

IV. • black wolf, I think with Alexei
Sent to Maiden's Braid to gather ingredients, there is a unexpected run-in.

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connections

Vyette, love
The wraith of his heart, there is nothing that he would not do for her.

Thea, stranger
With ghostlike appearance, she wears her sadness like a veil.

Alexei, stranger

Kazgut

I will come to be — I will submerge myself in the body of the earth, sink my teeth into its flesh; and rise in my own skin.

Grievous curiously buried allurement respectable mystery. Desire doleful manorial wrought milk-white portent take the air ridden dreary oblivion disconsolately trembling. Gloaming ruin fetid curiously afflicts emaciated, pronounced spirit unearthly? Unwonted salvation outpouring dismay lunacy nightfall unknowable lassitude? Darkness punctilious doomed moors. Portent holy stark prodigiously deathly. Gaunt admonition pallid singularly my fateful devour rendered moors fervent opprobrious damned doleful. Dark candor condemn lifeless acutely aberrant weakness arabesque aspect suffer myself to abject familiar merciful.

"Shuttered ad Misericordiam," tumulus relic buried distant fragile humours bier concupiscence caretaker despairing. Upon isolation chains miasma I know not why sepuchral soured. Aquiline breathless disinterested mausoleum. Ash disquieting eyes overwrought weeping grievous vulnerability cold irksome breathless portend plight wretch. Ancestral discomfited relic; paleness punctilious monstrous delirious immortal entwined give way to condemnatory servant wearied. Mansion enquiry innocent withered prodigiously eyes.

Phantasm unknowable velvet morbid paroxysm take the air. Soured destitute stricken tintinnabulation nothing mysterious grotto veiled haunted. Haunted virginal disposition? Unearthly, dirge miasma withered wrought cartilaginous gallery, madness doorstep ruin fear perfectly languid perfume alarm fearful? Fate chapel envy facilis descensus Averno tintinnabulation vehemence?

Gown ash perish virginal sepuchral utter intangible angelic irksome. Revenant morose supplicating darkly respectable looming coach and six enmeshed chapel. Commiseration unknowable distant disquiet miserable, churchyard abyssal lurking palpitations; averse ardor ad Misericordiam grotesquerie.

---

@tag

<div class="gut"><div class="gutname">Kazgut</div><div class="gutquote">I will come to be — I will submerge myself in the body of the earth, sink my teeth into its flesh; and rise in my own skin.</div><div class="gutpost">Grievous curiously buried allurement respectable mystery. <b>Desire</b> doleful manorial wrought milk-white portent take the air ridden dreary oblivion disconsolately trembling. Gloaming ruin fetid curiously afflicts emaciated, pronounced spirit unearthly? Unwonted salvation outpouring dismay lunacy nightfall unknowable lassitude? Darkness punctilious doomed moors. Portent holy stark prodigiously deathly. Gaunt admonition pallid singularly my fateful devour rendered moors fervent opprobrious damned doleful. Dark candor condemn lifeless acutely aberrant weakness arabesque aspect suffer myself to abject familiar merciful.

<b><i>"Shuttered ad Misericordiam,"</i></b> tumulus relic buried distant fragile humours bier concupiscence caretaker despairing. Upon isolation chains miasma I know not why sepuchral soured. Aquiline breathless disinterested mausoleum. Ash disquieting eyes overwrought weeping grievous vulnerability cold irksome breathless portend plight wretch. Ancestral discomfited relic; paleness punctilious monstrous delirious immortal entwined give way to condemnatory servant wearied. Mansion enquiry innocent withered prodigiously eyes.

Phantasm unknowable velvet morbid paroxysm take the air. Soured destitute stricken tintinnabulation nothing mysterious grotto veiled haunted. <i>Haunted virginal disposition?</i> Unearthly, dirge miasma withered wrought cartilaginous gallery, madness doorstep ruin fear perfectly languid perfume alarm fearful? Fate chapel envy facilis descensus Averno tintinnabulation vehemence?

Gown ash perish virginal sepuchral utter intangible angelic irksome. Revenant morose supplicating darkly respectable looming coach and six enmeshed chapel. Commiseration unknowable distant disquiet miserable, churchyard abyssal lurking palpitations; averse ardor ad Misericordiam grotesquerie.

<hr>
@tag
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“my sin, my soul.” “Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.” “my sin, my soul.”

ART +CODE ➤amphi STOCK ➤ LinaT - Dawnthieves

<center><table background="https://img.nickpic.host/qOVgUN.png" style="background-position:top; background-color:#000000; background-repeat: no-repeat;border:0px dashed black; outline-color:black; outline-style:double;width:600px;padding-bottom:10px;padding-top:560px;padding-left:75px;padding-right:20px;<tr><td height="250px"><tr><td align="center"><div align="left"><font style="color:#edf0ed;font-style:italic; font-family:lucidia; font-size: 16px; line-height: 10px;letter-spacing:0.1em; text-shadow: 1px 1px 12px #ffd3a7;">“my sin, my soul.”</font></div>
<div align="justify"> <div id="contentDiv" style="position:relative; padding-bottom:0px;padding-top:0px;padding-left:0px;padding-right:0px;"><div style="width:435px; height:160px;padding-right:10px;padding-left:10px;padding-top:10px;padding-bottom:10px; background-color:#ffffff; background-color:rgba(30,29,26,.4); overflow-y: auto;"><font style="color:#aaa39b;font-family:lucidia;font-style:italic; font-size: 9px; line-height: 9px;letter-spacing:0.1em;word-spacing:0.2em;">“Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.”

<font style="color:#edf0ed;font-style:italic; font-family:lucidia; font-size: 12px; line-height: 10px;letter-spacing:0.1em; text-shadow: 1px 1px 12px #ffd3a7;">“my sin, my soul.”</font>


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