The Magician - Epilogue by Treo-LeGigeo, literature
Literature
The Magician - Epilogue
There's a man who isn't real, never was, and a woman who might be. There's a land of plains and skies, but also of times and hereafters. A land away from the darkness, out of the shadows of doubts and uncertainties, and with a spirit of its own.
The other man stays as he stands, a stranger, an intruder like the rest of the crowds who waltz in and out, seeing without really knowing. But unlike them he's beginning to nudge open that door between, taking the first few steps within. And he looks down now where the edges of the fortune teller's gift are cutting into his palm, unfurling his clenched fist and letting his eyes fall on the etched for
Tracking Europe's shadow was never going to be easy, but outside the loyal lurks there were always the few who were willing to talk, strangers and random passers-by who could recognise a description and point down a few streets. Paxter chased through Romania, through Greece, doubling back to Hungary before leading into Germany. He arrived in Dresden just as Ice left for Aachen, following there only to find him having crossed the border into Belgium. Brussels saw the agent following a false trail up to Amsterdam before being redirected to Geneva, always just a single pace behind.
Days were frustrating, nights restless, spent lost in thought r
"Devlin."
The dark man raised his head. "I'm sorry?"
"Ice Devlin, I believe they call you."
A pause, then he smiled. "I believe you have me at a disadvantage. Introductions, then? And a drink?"
He lifted a hand to signal as the other dropped a black briefcase to the floor and took the seat before him, visibly grimacing down at the grubby tabletop.
"Wonderful joint, isn't it?"
"Not at all," was the reply. "My kind exactly."
"I'd imagine so, yes," the other man said, dragging a glance around the bar.
"But not yours, I take it. What are you here for? Need something done?" Ice let his gaze sweep over the form opposite, eyes narrowing, ass
The Magician - Prologue by Treo-LeGigeo, literature
Literature
The Magician - Prologue
The bar stinks of stale cigar smoke and spilt alcohol. The light is dim, barely scattering dull yellow flickers on the grimy walls as tinny melodies from the jukebox mingle with hushed dealings and growled threats. It's not a nice place, but it's not a bad place. It's even a good place for those who know the comforting arms of the gloom.
There's a man at a table, black hair and heavy coat blending in with the backdrop, one who has spent the last half-decade dancing in the shadows of Europe. He's like an artist in his own way, one who works with the whims and frailties of human greed rather than the paints or the clay. But rumour has it now t
Carl,
Remember that time, brother, when we were young? When we took off before I was even though high school in your beat-up old whatever-it-was without so much as a goodbye note, dreamed of travelling the country?
There was a place we stayed at, the night before we finally gave up and turned around. It think it may be my last clear memory of you.
It was called the Beaumont Farm.
The petrol gauge has been sitting below empty for the last hour, and Carl Levine doesn't bother trying the key again when the engine splutters one last time before falling silent. He shivers in the cool air as he opens the door, pulling out his phone and cursing
They take her on her honeymoon.
The wedding was lovely, or as lovely as it could have been with a couple that were more polite acquaintances than anything else and two sets of in-laws as stuffy as a dusty pile of money. They grab her when she sneaks out for a walk one night, two men, beefy, not even bothered to arm themselves. Her last thought before the bag is shoved over her eyes is to wonder how much this would ruin her parents' plans.
She comes to in a small brick room on a sallow mattress, windowless and lit by a cool yellow lamp. There's a man there, standing just outside the barred door.
"Kelly Shale," he says, voice nasally, greasy
Every face has an eye, every eye has a sight,
To seek and know, what is wrong and right.
Every sight has a vision, every vision has a dream.
And every dream has a future, to find, to fight.
Every face has an ear, every ear hears a tale,
Of good and bad, success or fail.
Every tale has an end, every end has a hope,
And every hope can live no matter fire or hail.
Every face has a heart, every heart has a soul,
To lead the world to that one last goal.
Every soul has a voice, to speak and to trust,
And every voice, is one of us.
On the Sea Beneath the Sky by Treo-LeGigeo, literature
Literature
On the Sea Beneath the Sky
Golden flickers danced on the pale faces of the circle, hushed whispers wafting out from the gathering by the glowing coals. It was the third night of the coming-of-age, the no-longer-little ones from each of the surrounding tribes taken out together in the openness of the untamed world. There were a few in the group that stood out, discernible even in the thick coverings of the night. There was Jiu-yeil, son of the carpenters, impressive form already bulging with strength and muscle more fitting of a man twice his size. The brothers, Senniare and Elieten of cloth-maker, sat donned in simple but the finest of all their travelling robes. And v
El stands under muted chrome lights, legs splayed apart and left hip cocked out like the jagged end of a lipstick smear. The soft undercurrent of voices drifts from the club crowd up to the stage, quiet murmured conversations below the chink of glasses and clicks of the mike stand slotting into place. If she listens close enough she can almost hear the bare echoes of a young man's laugh, a woman's soft tinkling sigh, the swell of a family's conversation.
"All ready," the man before her grunts around the toothpick hanging out the corner of his sun-cracked mouth. El reaches a hand over to tug at the length of color-faded silk knot