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A Sermom of Lies

a Sermom of Lies

always did in the pre-dawn gloam. She inclined her head: Master Whetstone. Slight of stature, they were an ancient order of sprites whose descendants were a radical and florid mix of faery and elf with some mongrel boggit thrown in for good measure.

From long ago She slid her hand out of sight. All ilfs possessed one and they were intrinsic to the persona and soul of their owner. Swung a sheaving-scythe til mine blisters bled Actually, no, thought Buck. What actually appeared on pulp Fiction and religon his face was more akin to sudden chlorophyll poisoning: Actually, vicar I was just on my way to girdle the hummbles for todays sermon so Your Eminence! Do you know how many bricks there are in this tower? To our posts, one and all. They drifted and roiled, describing nebulous orbits around her pupils in a somnambulistic dance that soothed and beguiled. She was tall, even by ilfess standards, and clad in a soft woollen grey habit. Oi, came a grating voice. The ilf cast a golden-eyed glance about him, questioningly. At the moment it was sitting in one of its typically nondescript forms a small, damp wooden farm gate, crumbling under a rain shower. Buck had his, although it suffered from something of a personality disorder and unlike Beris, seemed unable to make its mind up as to what it wanted.

A, sermon of, lies - part 1 - Story by Futurefire79
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