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Post by Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine on Mar 31, 2009 21:14:59 GMT -6
PHANTOM: Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair! Down we plunge to the prison of my mind! Down that path into darkness deep as hell!
The heavy rains had started, pounding life into the streets and washing away each sin. Blood had stained the cobblestone streets of a dream for the last time, and this he was certain. Too long had this land been in turmoil, would it not be time for peace? As polished boots moved over the watery ways, Jean-Claude could not help but feel soaked not only from the rain but as well the night. Always did the darkness pool around him like a veil, protecting the him from a world that would not understand..he was different. A mind far advanced could often be mistaken for witchcraft in light one would walk carefully over the beaten path, and find comfort in what kept him safe. Down once more the Under Dark welcomed him with its embrace. The cool damp air of the labyrinth always swelled with so much character when it rained. A river ran through it, over lines drawn by his steps, hiding away any trace that there was in fact a man living in such a place. Stolen science, from a dreamer’s heart lifted away a stone door hidden to the naked eye. Wheels and cogs turned back the path and the warm welcome feel of a fire burning in the hearth would be the only thing to greet him. Welcome home, the flames spoke out as he shed away his overcoat, the water pooling below the hook that would be then covered by the silk brim of his hat. No amount of fine wool could keep that storm out, and it would take only a matter of moments before the fabric of his shirt would be pulled away from skin as pale as the full moon. Porcelain flesh well toned like fine marble carried very little imperfections seeming like a vision—why would he want to hide it? Why did he not show it? Why did the sun never touch it? As the water dampened his skin, the fire would dry it revealing then his reason. Closer, the smoothness would fall away and the marks of scars branding his skin came to life. Burns..horrid burns that looked just as much painted as any of his work. “He’s mad..Mad….” There words tore back into his mind, any time he did not keep it busy. Idle hands would rattle thinking of how the ropes held him out upon the cross. Like the savior he was being judged for having a mind of the future. “Witch! Warlock! Lunatic! Burn and Die!”“He’s mad..”Many times while Jean-Claude slept he relived that moment, over and over in his nightmares it always ended the same..just as it did then. An arrow pierced the hands that were bound, the only way to free the ropes, and for this he was certain. In horror the mob would turn upon the town hall a man with hair that glowed like a halo around his head, could easily be mistaken for a halo—if he did not grin like the devil himself. “We’re all mad here..” All of them ran, ran for the lives, and fled the town that would burn then through the night. However, when the fires died there was not a body there upon the cross or ashes of any remains. Long gone was he from that little village in France. Somewhere along his life he had learned to forget that past, to move on but it was now here with his work did he find time to think back on the what-if’s and whenever. What would have happened should he have not survived? Would they all be dead? His work countless times had proven his skill, from everyday trinkets to works of great art, but it was now he worked upon a cure. Skilled hands that took up the brush more then the sword, who pressed red paints not blood worked through formulas for what? A question that should be… For who? His mind drew a blank for a name, or where he had ever seen her. However, she was real he had known her, but no matter how many times he tried to paint her never could he see her face—no matter how many times her eyes haunted his dreams. She had a sadness in her eyes, that only fate could touch, and he knew well that fate played it's hand here. Someday..someday...
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Apr 10, 2009 14:02:23 GMT -6
To see you is only passing glimmers To seek you is to see the substance.
I am a seeker, Master Jean-Claude J'ai cherchions , maintenant Je vois. J'ai une requête à font de vous I have sought, now I see. I have a request to make of you The brilliant minds of an age were deemed the raving lunatics. It never failed, the recognition of genius appreciated when it was done in parameters. Genius is done in spades, one spark feeding another. When flames kiss, however, they do consume. The hallmark of the age was fire. Great minds of science, one slight difference of faith, the unique were all cast into the flames lest all of Europe go to hell. It was not a challenge for a Lady to keep tradition. In order to defy any heirarchy, you must first know how it is formed so that as the rules are formed for application no one knows when the shift became so evident.
Her house was called the Laurence House. Exact, precise. She stood on the front steps of smooth, brown, cobbled stones. Each piece was etched until the representation of ivy leaves formed a locking shape under the soles of her shoes. Ivy was a sign of fidelity. Fidelity? A favored trait in uncertain times. This house, unlike many other houses, had been in the city some seventy-five years prior. Fortune favored stability. Bravery or luck were droll concepts to apply with it. Diligence was the way to achieve the improbable, such as refinishing to the newer look of a fashionable age in a time of war. It brokered no great consideration for it was neither goash or built for the purpose of attraction. More subdued than even the humility of the patron, it still was quite delictable if there was an eye for achitecture. The entire row was built of stone, but it was these stones that took the place of an additional two homes on either side of it. All of this, and one woman stood on the steps to the home of a woman of independent fortune who's walls hid a place of mystique and infamy.
Tasteful decadence covered her hands in Italian leather, her back, in ermine. When she stepped down from the step to talk the hand of Voltaire, nothing disturbed the placement of silk brocade. Deep black was invaded by the imprints of flowering in obscure midnight threads, the bodice lined in sapphires of exact shade. The portrait can be colored any way one likes, but the founding principles are still the same. It was a lovliness in constant correspondance with shadow. To be forgotten if it wished, to hide, if it so willed.
"Your purpose tonight, madame?" "We are to seek out the genius behind the King of the Dark." "Isn't he self stylized, madame?" "Quite." "How droll." "Master Peregrine has always been a droll figure, but it is his mastermind we go to see tonight."
Rain fell in Turas Lan. Dancing patterns over places feet had tread before to sound as crystal symposiums held on the meaning of ether -- vast and haunting. Water rolled from the cloaks on each as if it had touched oil. She paused in their adventure only one time to look up at the moon. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, no? Claramae lived in a constant paradox. Blood stained her hands while subterfuge was the chosen snakebite. "Larkin favored the moon over the sun. Rememer how he would talk on the day? It is no wonder, his loyalty proving just as fickle as a lunar phase." Voltaire in reply said nothing, only leading her on his arm. No woman should ever be without escort or it raised question. At night, she would be considered a harlot. No matter the prestige of Renaissance crying from the craddleboard of progress it was a child in a room of Old World peerage. Did she struggle as some with the expectations of station and the daliant wants of freedom? No. For years she had done precisely as bred to, and to be bred is to become is it not? Turning an eye from heaven the moon was left alone, unable to follow them in the shadow that devoured two elegant hosts.
To get to the aquaducts, it was faster to utilize certain thoroughfares than the unique devices that turned a courtyard garden over toward the Labyrinth. It was fine, you see, to reach the underbelly, but even the deepest residents remain close to a fringe. For the Laurence House, it was being in a respectable district where in no less than six turns the ambiance began to change. For the King's genius, it was where water flowed. Liquid in constant churning, dripping, flooding, seeming to pine for earth. In the aquaducts it found only Roman's ancient brickwork. In the winter, she had come to him for a place to lay the body of a fallen knight found in the water. She had come, to offer comeraderie when wolves ran rampant over the snows. Those times no doubt were easier than this.
One grows loathed of games; its rules, its customs become over bearing. Jean-Claude seemed neither here nor there. Maxamillion pondered this as he watched the madame seeming levitate down slick, dangerous stairs to a round cavern. At this side of the labyrinthian door, his mind somehow went to chess. Therein, a Bishop would call on a King's errant Rook.
I am a seeker, Master Jean-Claude J'ai cherchions , maintenant Je vois. J'ai une requête à font de vous. - I have sought, now I see. I have come to make a request of you.-
Claramae was an observant of custom. She had announced her visit with entry into the world, came in her best, and now called for the master of the house by his mother language. Had it been prudent she might have even carried wine to leave him for his trouble. She clasped her hands behind her back in the pristine example of patience as the rain continued to fall. Innovation saw them not become wet! See, one might blend worlds, if only they had the proper instruction.
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Post by Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine on Apr 15, 2009 20:30:47 GMT -6
I have fallen further from the sun than I had ever wished, But with it came the dawn… And I could not imagine another day without her.
“Then here is where your journey ends, Mon Ami” The lull of his voice started, a trance too many-- the calm serenity to the rest. Jean-Claude had always been a man of many words, but never were they spoken. His thoughts ran wild with his ideas; the stories weaved to life with the pure miracle of science, and often he had found will forever be mistaken for witchcraft. 'It is all natural, god given phenomenon.' He had pleaded, but with it came his punishment—a cruel and brutal fate. This Underdark could be a small dismal hell to many, and he could only imagine the relation he could share with those who built it. How long had they been underground? How long did they not see the sun? Working the days, and living the night? How long were their secrets kept, and to be lived only in the glory of their own eyes? He had cured a nation of rabid wolves, but none would ever know. For the eyes were blind and only the favored heroes could take such glory as he was purely known as the Pirate’s right hand man, and never thought as his own. Claramae would be greeted with a genuine smile, as he pulled from the shadows. A kind heartfelt welcome for the lady who he half expected as none ever came from above. Perhaps he should have been surprised to see her, and perhaps he should have chased her away, played the part of dark blindhearted fool whose life was tortured, and made her believe her own would be as swell. Run run little girl, run from the dark, you know not of what you seek. Yet, the doubt lived inside his heart that he could not win a battle of wits against this woman, or even a battle of sword. Claramae plays on the light side of the moon, but watches well the dark. She is no fool. “You have come a long way from the world, Ma petite, but the real question should remain as to why? What is it you seek?” Dark endless night eyes met that of her own, and there inside cobalt blue would be the answers many would seek. Jean-Claude absorbed knowledge by a mere glance, having studied bodies with his mind more then he does with his hands. He knew the language in which she spoke by the single presence of books, and he could read her body like the lines upon pages. She was poised, proper yet hands were delicately placed not far from his death, as this he was certain—and kept his own in plain sight. The world behind him was solid black, void of any light save for the single lantern in which they waited, and the small crack in a large iron door built to hide well his lair. However, where there was nothing for the eyes, the ears would have their fill. Music, soft and vibrant filtered through the cracks as if a full concerto lived there in the underground. Music that was not native to Skye, but would be known to the lady he was certain. “Out here it is damp and dark, come..I will show you the only way to live.” He smiled gently a tease perhaps, but the truth of the matter was he could not help but walk upon broken glass around her. Cold wet stone, damp moist ground, and frozen waterways held no beauty. Black halls without any light could survive no life, but as the door swung open the warmth of the fire blazed through; the soft glow of the lamp light was welcome, along with the litter of candles—everywhere. Richly dyed heavy fabrics as seen in palaces across France were hung upon every wall, with rich cherry wood accents. The floor had been covered with carpets a plenty, that sunk with each step almost begging for a bare foot, as one would never feel such a treat again. Though the chamber was but one room, Jean had broken it up into many; a study for his work where ideas were born, a lab that carried out ideas like a painting, and a space for his arts—the release of creativity: His current project one of the finest gowns to every be sewn in the color of the sky. Peregrine’s gift to Rosalind, would as well be crafted by his hand, shocker huh? As the door closed behind them the small padding of paws could be heard as one of the winter wolves came to their master’s side, and a small glance of his bare hands would be given. It had been a mistake, a flaw in character as he never exposed his hands, and the reason would be clear. A tangled mess of scar tissues, appeared that the flesh had simply been melted away; the burns were so severe. Was it any doubt he kept them hidden, and how bad this shame—a man as handsome as this. As always in typical Jean-Claude fashion he corrected his mistake with the subject at hand, shifting his eyes from the wolf to the spy (was their much difference) “Can I offer you some wine?” He asked as the fabric fell over his fingers, and he quickly went to retrieve his gloves.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on Apr 20, 2009 23:07:17 GMT -6
Eloquence was parlayed in the refusal; poetry was made out of abstinence so she held nothing but gloved leather over gloved leather across two hands....
Master Jean-Claude, you are a learned man, yes? How fair you with the length of your skill?
Ask and ye shall recieve. Old sayings; odd place to recall adage but nothing was common of the class' meeting in the subterranean depths as her back fare welled the moon. The water. The air. The above. The under-dark was like the psyche turing into a meditation. Only this was not devised by the Church, nor the Devil. It was despite appearence the place falling between where it lay to the taskmaster to make something of it. "Thank you," she thanked her host promptly, slicing the black with the effective sweep of her train.
Aesthetic was in the eye of the beholder. Bleek walls bled rain water gone to fester. In these tunnels, forgotten liquid froze and became pools going neither forward nor back unless the passage for them was released from the built of presure of the element against the stone. Still, it took the water long to wear away the sotne. It was stubborn, thick headed. Didn't it see that the water wanted dominion? Instead, it was forced to remain next to, not over arching. Juxtaposed against the bleak were the objects of culture that would make Jean-Claude labled as 'droll.' Dry humor flickerd smile's indifference but it was gone before he looked on her again. He sank below scrutiny and humiliation gone to heresy, she subsided beneath what was known of being human to be a living iron-maiden. In them both thumped hearts pushing blood that animated the synapse of beautiful minds. Deviant. Astounding in the vast scope lf intellect they covered.
"Pray thee, you are thanked, but no. I do not indulge in the fruit of the vine but on seldom occasion." What she tasted instead of wine was the flavor of an idea, thick and sweet, dwindling down to a base of euphoria. Excitement was reserved for the long circle tracts of logic she walked on the chance that she might not do so alone. Still, the day it registered in her eyes would be the day they closed the lids to death. St. Laurence had always been odd. Even as a girl she was reserved, staunch in observance of the nobility's call of upright decorum. At times she had to be all but goaded to disobey the status quo. "Beyond the bastian of the wolf question." She had brought Balian into his tunnels when the snow was scarlet stained. Her hands saved his life, and both convened on the wolf question yet it was his work, Jean-Claude's, that found he answer. It was only of late that circumstances demanded time devoted to her particular passion for turning water into wine. "If you are able, I require the rendering of your skill to the disabling of life as based on cultures. I will soon away to England, and would require your work on the unraveling of certain compound known to hinder both Jewish and Anglo persuasions. Blood-work in relation to applications is a rare talent, hideous when applied. I would like for your assistance in creating a secondary antidote to accompany the primary for these." Voltaire came to her person. He touched her, what was that like? Reaching his hands into the softness of her hair, beneath the headpiece to pull forth four different shades of scarlet in four different viles. "Each holds the blood of each race against the poison while the other is the primary antidote, I believe blood-appliers are hastening to fashion secondary ones, and would prefer to make the end of the race before them."
Pandora pulled apart the box and cast out curiosity, darkness, pain, and disdane into the world with little more than shift of hair pin. Would Orpheus look over his shoulder while the Gods offered him a temptation that would exalt his brilliance, not that of the underworld king? Light-moon dancer's steps on the dark side of the sphere were well engrained. What seperated them was independence and the levels of dependence upon another.
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Post by Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine on Apr 23, 2009 12:44:39 GMT -6
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree? ~Edgar Allan Poe
@~'~,~ From time and space the box had been closed as the entire world shut around them. A world away from the surface, she had entered into the belly of the beast, but found a gentle soul who felt he was right. However, this had started many wars right? This feeling of being right crossed the path of wrong, were one man saw justice—the other saw a vendetta. He was thankful for the art of science, thankful for the freedom it leant him. Jean-Claude found comfort in the stone shadows were he could be left alone, and it would be for this reason he took the vials. He would do her this favor, and he would do it right. “Of where am I to deliver when It is finished?” Endless night eyes passed from the palms of his now occupied hands to the face of death herself. His question seemed clear, but as always an underlying meaning could translate well into his request—he wished to not be bothered, as with work as delicate as this a mind could only wonder so far. She had caught him by surprise, and clearly it unraveled part of the mystery about this man. She had caught him in casual attire, with delicate parts of his body exposed, and now with a healing Courtesan asleep in his bed. Shaden was well upon her way of recovery, and so was he-- in finding the cure of a sickness well defined by death. There had not been a point of return until now, and clearly he thought of all the miracles this could bring—the mind of a gentleman. Of all the money this would bring..the thoughts of a pirate. It would be the beginning of a new era, and with a few added touches could potentially be one of the most effective weapons. It only started with an idea, growing into thoughts and devotion, and no matter how pure a nation seemed: all grew hungry with power eventually. Upon duplicating the first vial he spoke a prayer the drug would not fall into the wrong hands, but who would protect it from his own. The future belonged to those who live it, the children they leave behind, and the ideas to shape the horizon. What would come of the innocent angel from the carriage? This Janice at who held more protection, then perhaps the Duchess herself. What kind of world would he leave behind for her? These were all thoughts that passed for what seemed a lifetime, but were in fact only a blink of a well-trained eye. Claramae handed him a task, one that would lead to another, and another after that even if it were of his own ideas. Jean-Claude felt in doing this he would build relations; join a circle he could thrive in, or perhaps a circle he would break. Who knew of their fate, but as his fingers closed over the vials; somewhere someone’s fate was sealed.
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Post by Master Claramae St. Laurence on May 1, 2009 12:17:33 GMT -6
Like a lover, she held fast to the stipulation and encouraged suspicion by giving her body for constant affairs. What fractured were the lips from the line into a curve. No teeth showed, but the hint of smile on the face was like pleasing a changeling Jean Claude's question recieved no immediate answer. Her world, like the subterranean labyrinh to which he confined himself, was secritive. Clandestine interludes caressed the uprisen curve of the feminine exquisite. Like a lover, she held fast to the stipulation and encouraged suspicion by giving her body for constant affairs. What fractured were the lips from the line into a curve. No teeth showed, but the hint of smile on the face was like pleasing a changeling. "You will know," she spoke, "It will come to you in a few days time." Before it died, a look of compassion passed for the way that Shaden lay. The lily-of-the-valley trampled under. She had been taken down, down to be mended. " I will pass my rosary beads o'er my finger in her name, sir." Death offered prayer for life. Ironic, but sincere. A few days would pass. In this time, the Lady would henceforth go to England. If any asked after her, it was a mention of business. If any sought her, they found no trace. -.-.- Did he fancy that the mind had a flaw? If one thought she would forget his message, it merely was that a few days time were not specified in the definition of 'few'. Perhaps a week, if not a little more, elapsed by the time at the foot of his home a sealed package arrived. A shield with Rose was being upheld by a two black griffins. From the center, a phoenix emerged. This would be the emblem of House St. Laurence. This, would be what he awaited: Monsieur,
By now you will have realized the complexity in the task given you, and how it might intermingle justly in your own work. I have included to you payment for your services, and the right to utilize the samples given you in such ways as they suit you. For what I have asked of you, please send the results in their physical form to the Laurence House, which by all accounts is quite easy for you to reach. If you would leave it in the third row of stones, just outside of the West Wall, facing the under-dark?
By letter, you may reply and leave it simply on the edge of the aquadut bridge, and it will reach me. Should you feel the desire to come to London, I extend you an invitation to lodge in Rose Fielding House, my estates just outside of the city.[/font]
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Post by Master Jean-Claude d'Aquitaine on May 4, 2009 15:45:01 GMT -6
It has a hole in it. Not only where I concentrate. The river still ribboning, twisting up,into its re- arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted quickenings and loosenings-- whispered messages dissolving the messengers-- the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.glassy forgettings under the river of my attention-- and the river of my attention laying itself down-- bending, reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy obstacles-- and the surface rippling under the wind's attention-- rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting permanences of the cold bed. I say iridescent and I look down. The leaves very still as they are carried.
~The Surface by Jorie Graham Yes he found beauty in fault, always had he been captivated by imperfections. It was when the courtesan was removed of her glorious red curls did he find her beautiful. It was then Jean-Claude found true beauty when the mask of falsehood was pulled from her. Shaden had been forced to smile, but inwardly he knew she wept for her lost hair. Did Goliath cry as she? Feeling like a matchless maker, she had been forced to start again. Very few of her hours were spent awake, but what little time they had together would prove the subject of desire. He loved her truly and openly worrying over her with every breath he took, as he knew well when she recovered she would return to her husband. She would return to the sun, and he would find himself in England. Claramae’s task had been a tedious one for that he was certain, but how deep her desire for the results he had not been prepared. What a subject at hand indeed, captivated him, and kept him upon his toes. The viles were precious divided into thirds, and he broke down the contents as if handling glass himself. What had made them so different? Blood of the same nation, he could understand, but why was it so important to find difference in the blood of the Hebrew? Jean-Claude was before his time dabbling in craft that would not be developed for centuries, and as he pulled his eye away from the mirrored glass he would smile—that crooked content fixture upon his face seemed a lie as no smile could take away from beauty, but somehow it seemed so unnatural. Many more hours to as the day was filled far too much, but it would be when he felt the cold nose of his companion did he remove himself from his work. The wolf would come to rest at his master’s side placing her long muzzle onto his lap, her desire clear. “You wish to walk?” The wolf would wag her tail then, her motives couldn’t be clearer and his bare hand came to brush back the silver fur of her coat. “Yes, let us take a break then.” From his breast pocket a small gold cased cog was pulled and he would flip open the case watching then as the hands passed over x, was it six already? Coming to rise he closed the distance where the bed held his heart, and he brushed his cool hands over her forehead lightly. Always had she wanted to feel him, from beneath the leather of his gloves, but never had he allowed such tender moments. It was not proper now was it? Already she was growing better, with each day that passed; massive lumps gone from her skin, a fever broke, and her color returned. “I will return, mon cher.” A whisper over the gentle grace of her lips before a delicate kiss was placed. With books in hand, and wolf at his side the shadow walker took hold of the surface and they started upon the path towards the shores. The Winter Wolf ran ahead happy to relieve herself, and thrilled to see the day’s last hour, as too was his master. However, upon the beach the line of a sail was spotted, as freshly washed laundry had been hung, but even then he sighed. Is this what he called doing laundry? Dab it with water and hang it here for the wind to beat it? Peregrine had left it, no doubt to follow the skirt hem of a beautiful maiden as together often adventure sung his name more then called it. Rosalind was a fine woman, and would make any man a fine match. It would not come as s surprise for him to wish her leave. She was heading for heartache and trouble as no doubt his Pirate Captain had written his own undoing countless times before. “Are you proud of me?” A voice came from behind the endless sing song voice of youth, and Jean would only pass a sigh over his lips as the wrinkled mess of clothes was still in dire need of a good soak. “You have been busy, or so it is said.” Jean replied pulling down the attire and started to fold it neatly. “Little birds have dropped their shock within my ear, saved the Sun Prince and our Pirate Queen?” Peregrine would only beam. “Yeah I figured I would do a little hero work..” Coming to point himself against the rock, he would kick a few into the sea, “Might make up for the future hmm?”
“I doubt saving the Duchess yourself would make up for their fall.” Jean spoke bitterly, “I have already been invited to England, working for Claramae.” “So it has begun then?” “Yes, and I fear too soon.” Peregrine would sigh then pressing from the rock, “Lord I’ve dug my own grave..go to England, Jean the fresh air will do you good, get you out of the sewers. I’ll stay here and cut off my ties.” "I'd like that, very much…” He stilled his words coming to meet the eyes of his friend, “The seeing England part, not you cutting away your ties.”Peregrine was quiet for a moment, watching the sun set upon the horizon marveling at how perfect the day had been. “Why don’t you take Rosalind with you?”“If I did that, then I should take all of who we care, but then it would be all of Skye would it not? You cannot tell me you have not enjoyed your time here.” Jean-Claude asked, “It would be selfish of you to only save one, and what of her son?”“The boy is a brat, what care do I have of him?” Harsh words that surprisingly he meant, or so he kept telling himself. “He can stay here with his father. They can be buried together.” For a good moment all was silent as the world moved around them, but Jean stood a solid mark taller than the other. “You do not mean that.”“No..but you shouldn’t question me. Not when I walk thin lines.” Dark eyes passed over the taller man as he jumped from the rock to join the wolf in her romp.
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