a sinister dance of death

I sat in the dark hall, head in my hands, despairing. A cold wind rustled the long drapes, leading the golden figures embroidered upon them in a sinister dance of death. My breath escaped painfully, broken by furious sobs of grief. As Silver lay dying, I thought I perceived a shadow, a glimmer, a floating red spot rising and drifting away. The journey would begin this very night. Time was of the essence. Silver would have to be found, again.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
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