The Chant of the Sibyl

The scent of blood and crushed flowers lingered in my hair, mixed with the smoke from Adrian's favorite incense, which was burned to excess in the camp that he and 'his people' had had retreated to. I could catch a hint of those mingled odors every time I turned my head too quickly, faint enough to be unidentifiable should one know know where I had just come from. It was cold; the air was damp and electric but it hadn't started to rain yet... I hoped it would hold off until I got home, that would be a stroke of luck.( Read more... )

Wordcount as of November 8: 11,352.

I'm a little behind.