Where flap the tatters of the King
Azure is the enclave’s cook and confessor. They change their hair constantly, but it’s consistently a deep blue. Scuttlebutt suggests it’s their natural color. Youngish-looking, they’re somewhere in their thirties. Or immediately outside thereof, one direction or the other. Their gender is basically unknowable, recognized as void. There’s something in their bearing that refuses to […]
The void isn’t colorless. It’s something out past violet in the skein of impossible colors only mantis shrimp can see. An inky gloom of hydrangea, azalea, and nightshade. Charcoal green of midwinter rot. Pink of a weeping wound. Heat lightning blue. The skies are rancid river water. The void isn’t silent, but the screams echo […]
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