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I write this on the hide of a blind cave-sheep, using ink made from crushed luminescent fungus and my own blood. Because someone must remember.
The last elder who remembered its warmth died three winters ago, her tongue turned to black stone mid-sentence. Now, the sky is a bruise—swollen, purple, and weeping a fine gray ash that settles on the shoulders like the touch of the dead. dark land chronicle
Let the dark choke on it.
I write this on the hide of a blind cave-sheep, using ink made from crushed luminescent fungus and my own blood. Because someone must remember.
The last elder who remembered its warmth died three winters ago, her tongue turned to black stone mid-sentence. Now, the sky is a bruise—swollen, purple, and weeping a fine gray ash that settles on the shoulders like the touch of the dead.
Let the dark choke on it.