No rest for the wicked; but what truly defines the wicked? Passion? Insanity?
Crux always pondered these kinds of thoughts at the worst of times, more so at this given moment. Rustling. The wind? No. Animal? No, too loud for that. Intruder? Crux springs to his feet, a hand immeditately thrown over his shoulder at the hilt of his blade. Scarlet hues scan the area side to side.
“Who’s there?”
@foxfircd










