Dec. 8th, 2015

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The book had bitten her hand. It had been her own fault. She had tried to take words from it and hadn't considered that the book liked its words very much. So it had bitten her, objecting to the theft of its property. The words were valuable though. Two forgotten words for 'Love' and seven words to fix a broken heart.

It was an old book, leather bound (she didn't look to see just what kind of leather) with dry rough pages that smelled of cloves. She'd learned of the book through whispers only half heard, bought from a curious device she had first thought to be a time-piece and had bought an age ago thinking it was pretty. It had taken her years to locate the book and she had scraped her knees hauling herself up over a stone wall.

In the end she had gotten the words she had come for, but the bite had, like a poison infecting the body, disrupted her glamour and left painful cracks and an ache nearly to her elbow. A visit to a witch she knew assured her it was nothing a bit of floral tape and some time wouldn't solve, but the disruption in her glamour was... problematic. Until the injury healed, the edges of her disguise were frayed

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(Iníon rí) Fiona Nic'Geimhreadh

June 2016

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