valarltd: (halloween)
Caramel Stuffed Apple Cider Cookies


1 cup softened butter
1 cup granulated sugar
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 box (7.4 oz) Alpine Spiced Apple Cider Instant Original Drink mix -not sugar free- all 10 packets (I found this in my grocery store near the hot chocolate mixes.)
2 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
3 cups all purpose flour
1 bag Kraft Caramels (14 oz)

Preheat oven to 350° F. Line cookie sheets with parchment. (You really need the parchment!)

In a small bowl whisk together flour, baking soda, baking powder and cinnamon.

With your mixer (or an energetic spoon) cream together butter, sugar, salt and all 10 packages of apple cider drink mix powder, until light and fluffy.

Beat in eggs, one at a time. Add vanilla and mix well.

Gradually add flour mixture to butter/egg mixture. Mix until just combined.

Refrigerate for about an hour. (If you're really impatient you don't have to do this, but it makes it so much easier to work with.)

When you are ready to bake, unwrap your caramels.

Scoop out cookie dough ball about the size of a walnut. (I used a rounded cookie scoop-full. My scoop holds about a Tablespoon.)

Flatten the ball of dough slightly in the palm of your hand. Press the unwrapped caramel into the center of your dough and seal the dough around it, covering it completely. Place on parchment covered cookie sheets 2 inches apart.

Bake 12-14 minutes, or until very lightly browned around the edges. Please don't over-bake!

Once the cookies are done, slide the parchment off of the baking sheet right out onto the counter. Allow cookies to partially cool on the parchment. When cookies are cool enough to be firm but still slightly warm, carefully twist off of parchment and allow to finish cooling upside down (either on the parchment or on a rack.) If you forget about them and they cool too much and stick to your parchment, put them into the freezer for a few minutes and they'll pop right off.

Yield: about 4 dozen, depending on how large you make your cookies (or how many caramels have been snitched out of your bag before you begin.) Store in an airtight container.
valarltd: (Default)
This is from Power in the Blood. Oren's boys get a lesson on vampire history. Violence, rough language, ethnic slurs, underage drinking, decapitated heads etc.

"Now, the vamps here in Memphis. Are they all religious kooks?" The Kid
busied himself cleaning a gun as he asked.

Read more... )
valarltd: (halloween)
I love October. Here at Chez Mudd, we let October stay just as long as she likes.

So, we're going to be having excerpts and music and other fun stuff, and what better way to kick off October than with Vampire Week!

On my facebook, there is the daily Piece of Flair, where I show off my virtual button collection.

And we will be giving away some books too! Because there's nothing like some Halloween reading to make your blood chill and your flesh crawl!

valarltd: (halloween)
This is from Fruits of thine a work in progress.

Vince sat on a large rock, kicking his heels against it like a petulant schoolboy. He hated the woods, he hated outdoors and he loathed beyond all telling of it the “team building” and “corporate culture” exercises.

“What?” he demanded of a nearby song-sparrow. “Firing is too good for me, they have to put me through humiliation first?”

The bird sang, and hopped along the branch in his direction.

“Fine, fine, I'm going you territorial little squab. I hope you end up en brochette.”

He stomped off, not really caring where he was going. The woods were fenced in and the trails were all clearly marked and well lit. If he got lost it was less than three hours walk in any direction to the nearest perimeter.
The light filtered down, little bright coins and streaks on the forest floor. Vince found another rock to sit on, deeper in the shade. He sniffed. Something smelled very familiar.

Memories of summers sent to work on his uncle's dude ranch in Wyoming filled his head. He could almost see the big red barn with its white trim, the neat yellow farm house where his aunt and uncle lived. Behind the barn was a haystack where he'd given his first blow-job. He smiled at that memory. Another quiet boy, sent out to learn to be a man, Jenner? Justin? He couldn't remember anymore. All he remembered was big green eyes swimming behind thick glasses.

Vince listened, trying hear it. The purr of a distant tractor, a mouthy rooster. But the air sounded full of taunts. “Four eyed sissy” was the kindest. Some of the others, he clenched his fists against the onslaught of hateful words coming at him in cracking adolescent voices. He heard his own tongue, always fast and sharp, growing more and more acid with each summer until he shredded the self-image of his tormentors with a few well-chosen words.

He covered his ears and took a breath. New-mown hay, came to him, with turned earth from the garden, his own shed blood from the latest pounding, and animals.

That was what he smelled, horses, specifically fresh horse-shit. After six summers spent mucking out stalls, there was no mistaking the odor. He wondered if there was a bridle path and riding stable along with the other amenities. He could use some saddle time.

The little motel had proved to be nothing more than sleeping quarters. The beds were comfortable, all king-sized with pillow tops that were quite incongruous with the middle-century headboards and dressers. The bathrooms had all the modern amenities, including a shower massager that was positively sinful.

The conference had been the usual trust-building bullshit, the sort of thing he'd always excelled at without half trying. Hell, he'd run more than a few retreats of the sort. Now, he was here. He wasn't sure why. The official reason given was “to improve office morale.”

They could have fired him and improved it. Better, they could have fired that prick, Simon. Fred Simon had hated him from the first day on the job. Homophobic slurs in his hearing, nasty presents left on his desk. Vince had no intention of taking it lying down. He had unleashed full force of his tongue and the rumor mill on Simon. The man had been looking over his shoulder for the last two weeks and had begun scuttling as if afraid to be seen in the office.

Naturally, such behavior was not without its cost. But if that price was spending a week in the woods, Vince would pay it. He didn't go back in the closet for anyone.

Now, he heard the horse. It was coming at a easy canter, but didn't sound like it had a rider. Vince ducked behind the rock to get a better look.
He looked and looked. It wasn't everyday that he saw a centaur, after all.

The sorrel stallion cantered into view, his coppery coat shining. The man's long blond hair flowed down the back of his light tunic, matching the stallion's tail. He hesitated, sniffing the air.

“I smell you, human. Come out.”

Vince stepped out from behind the rock. He looked the centaur over and swallowed hard. He was even handsomer up close. The one-shoulder tunic left very little to the imagination.

“Why did you hide, human?”

“I heard your hooves, and they didn't sound heavy enough to have a rider. I didn't want to be trampled by a runaway or a feral horse.” He gave a small smile. “I got stepped on once as a kid. That was plenty.”

“So you know something of horses? That is a rarity in this time.”

“A little.” Vince shrugged. “So, uh, what are you doing here?” He couldn't believe his mouth had just asked that question. It felt as if his brain had been bypassed, because the brain was still shouting “centaur!” in tones normally reserved for the Second Coming, and his mouth was making small-talk without him.

“Corporate retreat,” the centaur said with a wry smile.

Vince stared. “Really? You too? I didn't know there were centaurs, much less that they got hired by corporations.”

“Let us begin again, human. I am Fraoulis Itiascolt. I serve as the Liaison of Investor Relations for CenMinElKor, based in Yna City.”

Vince thought for a minute, recalling his long disused Greek. He didn't smile as he realized his new acquaintance was named Strawberry. He put out his hand instead. “Vincent Holbrook, Human Resources for ConMalg in Memphis.”

“It is not racist to call it Human Resources instead of Personnel?” Fraoulis shook his hand.

“Not when all we ever have apply are humans.” Vince caught himself looking at the strong withers and glossy hide. He gave up and sighed. “I would love to curry you, handsome.”

Fraoulis just smiled. “You are direct.”

“Never know what you'll get unless you ask for it.” Vince laid a hand on Fraoulis' side and stroked him. “And you are about the most amazing thing I've ever seen.”

“Then it is well that I like men and women in equal parts, is it not?”

Vince just swallowed and stepped closer. Something on Fraoulis' body beeped. Fraoulis looked at the brooch that held the single shoulder of his tunic.

“Vincent, I am sorry. We must continue this tomorrow. I will be late for my afternoon workshop on Hostages, Murder and other Negotiation Tactics. Meet me here tomorrow, right after breakfast.”

To Vince's surprise, the centaur leaned down and kissed him, a bare brush of lips before galloping off. He stared down the path for a long time, feeling the tingle on his lips from Fraoulis' kiss and considering what Fraoulis' world must be like to have that sort of workshop.

His own phone beeped its warning alarm, telling him he was going to be late for Communication and Personnel. He headed down to the conference center, wondering which room the centaurs held their meetings in.
valarltd: (halloween)
Available here:
or at

Charlie wandered the streets for the first time, being very careful not to get lost. He’d marked the route through the bazaar during the few trips with Edward on their way elsewhere, but he hadn’t had time to just explore or to shop. He took it all in, the colors, the smells, the cries of the vendors.

He was definitely in Egypt. This was not New York or London, where great department stores displayed new merchandise behind enormous plate glass windows. Nor was it Harlow, with little shops lining the streets so one had to carry a basket from bakery to greengrocer. Here, strange fruit formed miniature pyramids under canopy awnings. Handmade jars and boxes and furniture, none of which had changed in design much from the museum pieces,
gleamed and tempted. A jeweler kept an eagle eye on a tray of lapis necklaces and turquoise rings. The sellers’ cries rang out, competing with each other in the cooling evening.

On one corner, an old man sat talking to a crowd of rapt children. The grown-ups ignored him and Charlie realized the old man spoke English. He listened.

“So, Anubis and Khnum quarreled over the canopic jars, with each saying his were best. They brought it before a meeting of the gods, who decreed that the only way to determine the victor was to use each set of jars for a mummification. Now in those days, there lived two men, Khnum-ho-tep and Ni-ankh-khnum, both beloved of the potter god, manicurists to the Pharaoh. Anubis, Lord of Death, took them. Ni-ankh-khnum was mummified using Anubis’
jars. Khnum-ho-tep was mummified using Khnum’s jars. Once both men had been interred, the gods called them up to answer the questions of who made the better canopic jars. They were quite unhappy to learn this was why their lives had been cut short and swore revenge. This angered the gods and the manicurists were trapped, prevented from moving on to the next world.”

Charlie ventured on. Edward could tell a better ghost story. He bought a round loaf of fresh bread and some other things from the vendor, paying two English pennies and an American one. The vendor swore at him in Arabic and broken English, but Charlie gave him a grin. He knew what bread cost. He stored up the sound of the words to use next time he shopped. He tried some of the Arabic words Edward had taught him and the vendor grinned, too. They went back and forth for a minute, until Charlie dropped a piastre in the merchant’s hand and thanked him for the new words.

He paused to watch a pretty girl with flashing dark eyes as she danced on a street corner. He dropped a silver two-piastre coin into the bowl at her feet and she sent him a smile. Only a couple of men were paying attention, so he stopped and watched a little more closely. She noticed and danced to him, her bare feet so light they barely seemed to touch the worn carpet she had spread as a makeshift stage. Her anklets jingled and the finger cymbals chimed in his ears, making him want to join her.

She spun away from him, to the opposite edge and kissed one of the watching men, a tall man wearing a bright blue vest with gold embroidery. Charlie watched her dainty henna-patterned hands come up on the sides of his face and press him to her after she unhooked one side of her veil. She lingered there, her feet and hips still moving, as the man moaned and shuddered. She released him and he sank to his knees as she danced away.

Edward’s words about women echoed in Charlie’s head. How would it be, Charlie wondered, having a woman that he wanted, not just one that wanted him as a trophy. The idea of having the dancer, with Edward there to help him and guide him along, consumed him.

She whirled toward him and then away, a cloud of myrrh and cassia from her veils fuddling his head. He dug in his purse and took out a whole pound note. She saw and he beckoned her over. When she drew close, he held up the note and tried to negotiate in sign language.

She got the idea he wanted her and nodded. He held up two fingers and pointed to himself and then gestured, indicating a taller man. She smiled and linked her arm into his.

He entered the apartment, bread in one hand, girl on the other arm. Her name was Safi and she called him “Shar-lee,” making it almost two words. They hadn’t managed anything else. She spoke no English and he spoke a dozen words of Arabic, four of them food, six numbers and two really foul curses he’d picked up from the baker. Learning from a military man had its drawbacks.

Once back in the hotel room, he set the bread on the table and had Safi sit down while he went to find Edward. His employer was up and shaving. Charlie took the razor from his hand before he cut himself.

“Sit down,” Charlie ordered. “You’re still shaky.” He rinsed the razor and stropped it. “How much Arabic do you speak?”

“Not much more than I taught you.” Edward watched Charlie, but relaxed when Charlie started to shave him.

“I have a girl.” Charlie pulled the straight razor over his skin with a brisk motion. “She came with me for a pound. She’s beautiful, a street dancer. Teach me?”

Edward looked at him as Charlie wiped the soap off his face. “A girl? Here?”

“Yes, she’s in the sitting room. I went out for bread and came back with her, too.” He hesitated. “Are you angry with me, sir?”

“Oh no, quite the contrary.” Edward smiled and pulled Charlie down to kiss him. “What would you like to tell her?”

“That I think she is very beautiful and that my master and I would like to make love to her until the sun sets and rises again.”

Edward looked puzzled for a moment. “I’m afraid that’s quite beyond my scope. We’ll just have to show her.”

“I hope you like her, sir. I saw her dancing and thought of what you said this afternoon.” Charlie led the way into the sitting room.

Safi sat where he’d left her. She smiled at him, her dark eyes enticing. “Shar-lee.” She held her arms open and Charlie went to her, breathing her perfume of myrrh and spice. Edward held back a little.

Charlie had reached her and was about to kiss her when Edward bolted across the room and thrust a flaming lucifer into her swirling veils.

Charlie dropped her arm and recoiled as she went up in flame, far too fast, burning more like dry paper than like a human being. In bare minutes, only dried ash and a whisper of myrrh remained. The chair wasn’t even scorched. A small golden pendant in the shape of a pot lay on the chair.

Edward gestured to a mirror that was angled so he could see the door in it. “Always use a silver mirror in strange countries, Charles. You never know what might follow you home.”

“I brought her home, Edward. Dessert for us to share.” Charlie wasn’t sure why Edward had incinerated the girl, nor how she had burnt so fast, like an ancient scroll. He picked up the necklace that wasn’t even warm.

“She was beautiful and I commend your taste. However, that, dear Charles, was a mummy. A lesser minion, to be sure or she’d never have succumbed to a simple match. Don’t gape at me, lad. We’re in Egypt now, not England. Things are different here.” He tamped down a nut of tobacco and lit his pipe.
valarltd: (Default)


or DragonCon!
I'm in pink at 3:19
valarltd: (halloween)
Instead of boring you with more of my writing, EVERY GOTH ON THE FLOOR!

valarltd: (halloween)
Because even Mother-Trucker needs some halloween goodies:

valarltd: (halloween)
No snippet from me today.

Instead you get a link.
The Great Old Pumpkin by John Aegard

"You must know, Doctor, that I did not choose to seek psychiatric help. I have no faith that I shall exit this room a healed man; I know now that I have been destined for the asylum since childhood. No mere conversation with you can steer me clear of that fate. That said, let us proceed with this court-compelled farce before my mad prattle provokes your crabbiness further."

Lovecraft and Charles Schultz, two great tastes that taste weird together.
valarltd: (halloween)
From S is for Succubus, in Howl at the Mistletoe.

I walked, making a mental list of places a succubus on the town might enjoy. Strip clubs, either to feed on the free-floating lust or pick up some cash working. Not the brothels. The vampire cartel had those sewn up, and nobody crossed the King. It wasn't a matter of living to tell about it, it was more like what the old man would do to you once you were dead.

Elvis's crossing over to the Nightside in '77 created a huge shakeup in the Nightfolk. He never claimed to be anything but white trash with more money than God, and the old-style superiority-complex vampires were scandalized. But he surely kept the vamps in line. We hadn't had an exsanguination in twenty-seven years. I didn't have enough clout to see my own vampiric territory manager, let alone the King. So screw the bloodsuckers, they weren't in on this.

Bars, casinos and dance clubs. I could skip the Pumping Station and Backstreet, at least. Those were purely incubi hunting grounds. But I couldn't rule out churches. Some demons like the irony of feeding on the faithful. I didn't know how they managed holy ground and all that, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was because there was no such thing as holy anything. It'd sure explain why none of the crosses seemed to work. I'd catch early service at St. Mary's, late services at First Congo and then the evening one at Six Flags over Jesus, or rather Bellevue Baptist. I'd check Idlewilde Presbyterian and a couple others if this ran into next weekend.

I headed down to the bus stop. Presidents Island, and maybe a run over to the truck-stops in West Memphis. Lonely men came off the boats and the road looking for a lay. But, the little lady didn't know what I knew. As we turned onto the Island, I rubbed the odor killer I bought from the morgue under my nose.

Used to be, this place shut down at five o'clock on Friday, like all honest businesses. Then about twenty years ago, some genius got the bright idea of importing zombie labor from the coast. Just like that, the longshoremen were out of a job and all their payroll went into the bosses' pockets. A longshoreman costs forty grand a year, plus benefits. A zombie costs about a grand. They may only last three months in our climate, and they're slower than mud, but they're cheap and tireless and OSHA doesn't mess with zombie ops.

Nowadays no one goes to Presidents Island. Not unless they have to. My odor-killer didn't cut all the stink, and the poor truckers who hadn't known about the zombies loading them, well, they all sat in their cabs looking a uniform shade of sickly green.

A few questions of the dock bosses made it clear I was the first female to set foot on the island in a long time. I headed back to town pretty fast.

Beale gleamed in neon, just firing up for the night, so there was no time for a shower to get the zombie reek off of me. Swell. I looked like a tough and smelled like a vagrant.

The carriages stood in their lines along the sidewalk. Most of the drivers were human, but I spotted another lycanthrope in the group. Some 'thropes were very good with animals, while others couldn't get within a block.

Cinderella's pumpkin coach, twinkling with little lights, clopped past, filled with two pretty high school girls and their dates. The fake unicorn in the traces was a nice touch. I got a closer look at the driver, and decided someone had a better job scruffing up a real unicorn to look fake.

The girl behind the reins looked about sixteen, but you can never tell with half-Sidhe. We don't get too many down here. The way the moon caught her hair and seemed to shimmer on her pointed features, giving her away to those who knew. Most of the folks just saw a pretty girl in rubber elf-ears driving a fake unicorn and hauling a tacky carriage.

The 'thrope, whose cabriolet I was leaning on, grinned at me. “I hate her. She works steady all night because she's so pretty. Half the girls are in love with the fairy tale and the rest, boys and girls, fall in love with her.” He waggled his shaggy eyebrows, looking adorably puppyish. Most 'thropes past puberty couldn't carry that look off, especially the wolves. His horses could smell both the pixie sugar and the zombies and couldn't decide whether to nose at me or shy away. “Need a ride, Ma'am?”

I handed him a card. “I need information. I pay well for useful intel. I'm a P.I. and I work for the Nightfolk. I've got a succubus gone missing that I need to find.”

“Not many demons around tonight.” He sniffed at me. “You stink of silver.”

I opened my shirt and showed him the heavy silver chain I wore. “Keeps my throat intact.”

“Wise lady. I'll keep you posted.” He tipped his hat.
valarltd: (halloween)
Well, not exactly.

How about an old Disney cartoon instead?
valarltd: (halloween)
This is from "Playing with Fire" subbed for the Undead Erotica anthology from Renaissance E-books.

Definitely not work-safe.

There were definite advantages to being already dead, Rick decided as he cooled his heels in a back booth of the 99 Fine Club, waiting to see Sterling. Namely, when his demonic boss killed him, he would wake back up after a few hours.

There were drawbacks too, especially the little point that his death certificate had already been filed when he woke up after the motorcycle crash back in '81. When the I-9 form had been required for employment, starting in '86, there was no getting a job without a Social Security card and a driver's license. Rick had the latter. But the Social Security Administration, in a rare fit of unwonted competence, had realized Richard G. Jax was dead and refused the card.

So, he stripped. Club owners didn't care if he was legal, as long as he showed up regularly and sober, and they paid cash. He blessed his good luck to have died at twenty-three. The tips kept him living in a cheap residential motel and eating off the hotplate. The main difference, as far as he could tell, between being alive and being undead was that he couldn't die or be killed and that breathing wasn't an autonomic function anymore, although it was still a necessity. He sometimes forgot, even after twenty-five years, and went lightheaded.
not work safe and VERY graphic )
valarltd: (halloween)
From "Miskatonic Mistletoe" available from Torquere Press

The Moon sang in Furball's blood, and once out of sight of men and their road, he sat back on his haunches and sang. He sang of power and hunting and running on four feet. He sang of her growing round and wasting to nothing before she grew again. Paul sat beside him, singing too.

As they finished, Dan bumped his head against Paul, wanting his alpha. A low rumble from nearby drew their attention. Something smelled old and dead, yet still moving. They stalked toward it stiff-legged, hackles raised, growling.

They were never sure later exactly what they had seen and smelled. But it had flown away before they could pounce.

Both wolves snorted the odor out of their noses. They cast about in ever-widening circles, looking for Corin's scent marks. Dan howled when he found it. Paul trotted up and sniffed, then obeying a male instinct older than time, put his own mark atop it. Dan marked a nearby tree, and they headed north and east, following the scent toward Corin and safety.

They found the old wolf in the woods south of the town of Arkham. Corin touched noses with them and licked them. They fanned out to hunt, hunger impelling them to search the woods for game.

Dan chased down a slimy, squealing thing and devoured it, its rank fishy flavor revolting him, and the oily flesh roiling in his stomach. He hated it from the first bite, but some primal instinct said it had to be eaten, that if he killed it, it would come back, or if he shredded it, the bits would all regenerate into new creatures.

He nibbled some dried grass, letting it take the foulness of the beast away. So much for local cuisine. He was lucky enough to find a couple of rabbits to settle his stomach.

As dawn approached, he followed Corin's scent marks to the back door of the Miska-tonics Herb and Tea Shoppe. Cian stood there, and he sniffed the elf. He smelled food in the background, meat and bread, and other stuff.

“You're late, pup,” Cian smiled. Dan slunk in, navigated the stairs and curled up next to Paul, in front of a fire that took off the December chill. As the sun rose, Cian tossed blankets over the three wolves before they could change into naked men.
valarltd: (halloween)
Ray Stevens has his problematic bits. But this song is brilliant.

valarltd: (halloween)
This is from "Worth the Woe" as yet unpublished.

With Anna and Lizzie behind me, I walked up and knocked on the door of the hut. The oldest girl peered out.

“Go away!”

I got my foot in the door but she tried shutting it anyway. Ouch. But my foot meant I could get my knee in and then I was standing there. “Please, we are lost and starving.” Anna and Lizzie put on their most pitiful faces.

The red-haired one saw us. “Oh let them in, Sissy. They can eat and sleep here. Father won't need to harm them.”

“Hush, you. Father will eat them and you know it.”

“No, he won't. I have an idea. I'll tell him. Come in, come in.”

She led us into the hut and put bread and cheese and a few bits of meat in front of us. Anna and Lizzie dove in, but I took only enough to feel more sure of myself.

“Why will your father eat us?” I asked.

“Because that's what giants do with puny humans who get lost,” sneered the middle girl who was putting more bread in to bake on the hearth.

“Ignore Gretchen,” our hostess told us. “She's a lot like Father and hates being reminded that Mother was half-human herself. Francesca, she is stern, but she has to be. It's just us here all alone while Father is out for the day.”

“I'm Molly,” I told her, never taking my eyes from hers.

“Betta.” She let me look as deeply as I wanted, enjoying the attention. I knew she did a lot of the work and wondered if she might like to leave with us in the morning.

“In the morning, I'll show you the way over the mountain and to the next town. There's a king there with a big problem and he might pay well for you to get rid of it.” She giggled. “Father is part of the problem.”

My beer shook, and then again.

“Father! Daddy's home!” The three giant girls rushed about getting everything in perfect readiness. They shoved us into the inglenook of the fireplace. It was well away from the flames where a whole ox roasted.

“I smell mortal, flesh and blood. It will go down well for breakfast.”

“You smell your ox a-roasting,” Betta said. “And our guests.” She beckoned us out. “This is Anna and Lizzie and Molly. They're staying the night and you won't be having them for breakfast, Father. They're guests and have drunk of our hospitality.”

“Foolish little baggage,” he grumbled. “I perish, feed me, girls.”

They had the ox and a barrel of beer on the table in a trice and watching him eat was a sight to see. I kept my sisters huddled in out corner and we watched and waited until he finished. His daughters cleared away.

“So, if I cannot eat ye, tell me of yourselves.” He settled in front of the fire with a pipe in his hand.

I told him all we had endured and he puffed away, making “hmm, hmm”s that rattled the windows. “Aye, stay ye shall, and share the beds of my three.”

“Father, there's scarce room enough for us in our beds,” Gretchen protested. “We're grown, or nearly so, and we still sleep in children's beds.”

“Sleep ye shall and right soon.” He yawned and stretched. “Light us to bed, Seska.”
valarltd: (halloween)
Heard this today. More grim and fatalistic than spooky.

August 2017



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