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An Introduction to Brysie Westing

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That's the thing about hearts. They break so easily. Not like glass, though. Glass takes pressure to break. It takes a solid hit, or a heaving toss at the ground to break. He barely has to whisper to me and I crack. That hot breathe caresses my skin and I am shattering all over again. I should have known we would end up like this. I told him I loved him far too soon, and when he was unable to reciprocate, I gave him permission to never have to.

You don't have to love me, I told him, just please don't leave me.

Talon.

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Things with Talon have taken an interesting turn. The man is absolutely perfect for me and that is what makes him the absolute worst. Another relationship is not what I wanted. But it is what I want. I don't know what I want. That old pirate is gone to the Light only knows where, leaving me with a last name I haven't yet gotten rid of (but haven't been using) and a whole lot of baggage.

Too Alike Each Other

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Raoul folded shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped away from the grave. It was taller than he was, but it was a complete lie.

He spat at the ground and shivered in the cold of the night as a wind swept through Stormwind's graveyard. Or maybe he was shivering with rage. He didn't know. It wasn't something he was going to spend too much time thinking about.

Honestly, he didn't want to be thinking at all.

Contains: 
Some violence; matters of fidelity.

Private Thoughts

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There’s a break from the writing here, as though the author paused in mid thought. A small cluster of spots from a pen tapping along the page blacken the space. Writing resume a few lines down, the lettering at first shaken, looping uncomfortably before tightening with an almost visible intensity, clustering and smearing together as Fulbreth’s writing races to match the frenetic pace of his thoughts.

Have barely slept in days. Is this what it is, then, to be a god? To live without consequences? What I am now, what has happened to me, I am clearly untouchable. Untouchable? Yes - when it is upon me, I am stronger than a man, more than, faster than. Everything is heightened – my touch, my hearing, my smell. No constable could stop me; they cannot go where I go. I do what I need to do, I have done…

The Gilnean Guardian

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The Monday following the death of Victoria Briarbone is punctuated by a palpable fright among the populace of Gilneas City. Over the din of trolleys clattering down the streets to upend their cargoes of surly workers before the imposing factories that line the Industrial District, a pervading whispered buzz echoes through the alleyways. Men grumble and shudder involuntarily, heads bowed low to avoid the splash of rain, as women of the various social echelons hiss conspiratorially amongst themselves and urchins dart excitedly along the rail that marks a hastily erected barricade, against which reporters crane their necks over the imposing frames of uniformed constables as hastily scratched notes dart along pads.

Unescorted Walks

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She whipped around again, fingers covering her lips to choke back a scream, at the crashing sound of a not-so-distant object striking the street, shattering. Moving backwards, her eyes darted back and forth along the row of buildings, searching the darkness for a sign of movement. Wavering, her voice rose.

“Who… who’s there…!?”

Silence was her only answer. She shuffled back, nervous, clutching her coat closer to her shivering form. Nothing she tried to force her mind to scream, nothing there, nothing to be afraid about, just the night playing tricks with your-. And then an involuntary shriek rose from her throat, dying down quickly to a panicked whimper. In the distance, sulking in the darkness she saw the murky form of an enormous creature, slinking towards her in loping strides, heard a thick panting, a snarling growl, and she turned and ran.

The Peculiar Man

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“….Hello Miss Victoria.”

She steeled herself, straightening fully as she put her cards aside, turning in her seat with an effort to put a lighthearted lilt to her voice.

“Why that must be Ful-oh!”

She blushed furiously at this, and the involuntary movement of her gloved fingers to cover her mouth to mask the shock, and she moved them away slowly, forcing a weak semblance of a smile to her lips. But it was understandable, for up close, Fulbreth Covington looked distinctly unwell.

An Evening of Discontent

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An Evening of Discontent

“It’s raining again.”

The voice, and the subsequent bang of the bedroom door slamming shut in the background started Victoria Briarbone upright in her chair, sending the tattered novel she had grasped in her hands clattering along the floor. Spinning quickly in her seat, she craned her neck to the doorway, her hand slowly drifting away from her chest as her eyes narrowed, taking in the young woman before her, setting numerous parcels carefully onto the bed.

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