Thu, 1 February 2018
None of this felt real.
Abranyah ran her palms over her jacket, the same brown duster she’d been wearing since taking on the mantle of sheriff. It was night, sort of, but everything was covered in a wily haze, blurred like she had one pull too many from the ferment bottle. Shapes and corners were punctuated by an aura that faded outwards. Abranyah smelled her own breath by blowing into her cupped palm, but she detected no ferment, no ginger. She didn’t feel off-heels, but everything before her was disconcerting in ways she couldn’t quite understand.
Music in Tincture: Book 2, Chapter Eight:
Intro music selected from: PrudHommes by Cobra (avec logo panthère)