This is some place, this is any place, this is no place. This is a bridge of rumours, a palace of bad oaths, an alley of dark tales. This is everywhere you've ever been and nowhere you've ever seen.
Voices that cannot be heard speak in broken whispers of victories that never happen, battles that were never fought.
A peacock angel struts and preens, biding its time, scheming its schemes. A black bird caged in a dream of thorns, watching and waiting a thousand dawns, while a child born of smoke and mirrors and dust wanders freely in the forest.
You have been reading
Tomorrow we'll start a short interlude before coming back to Raven, Fiona et al at the start of October.
You didn't want it to be over, did you?
