THe incense burns, sweet and cloying in front of the altar. The prince sits in wait; the priestess told him his father would come. His arm, deformed from birth, hangs limply in its cloth.... his poiinted ears twitch at the slightest sound. And yet, somehow, he does not hear the priestess's magic lift into the air...
All material posted at Elfwood is covered by the Elfwood Rules. If this page break any rule(s), help us out, and report it to the ERB by clicking here!