Behind every skull-capped gate, there is an Inkslinger sharpening his wits.
Past the gate crowned by grinning death, I passed after a slash of ruby paid my entrance fee. I followed a path ducking beneath a wall of emerging emerald buds. Sweeping the willow’s branches aside, I left it to weep on someone else.
Dreams are gossamer and wrapped up in them, I followed an opalescent gleam to a thumbnail moon. I sought the Inkslinger in his abode.
Polishing cloth in hand, he regarded a topaz tear of a dragon. He leaned against a stone mushroom where several cobbled paths converged. It was a rough-cut thing and my eyes refused to move from its contemplation. What was the thing–an ancient weapon in need of guarding? Why else would someone stick it behind such a gruesome gate?
A flash of silver recalled my wandering wits. I looked down at the sword protruding from my midsection. Pain registered as I slid to the ground. My blood painted the cobbles and my eyes focused on a corner of a sapphire cloth. Designs twisted up its edge. I laughed as my stomach knit and pushed out the blade. The fight was on.
For: Sunday Photo Fiction & Madverse a twitter prompt: