Arwen. What a puzzel. You could describe her as rich, generous, selfish, self-centred, devilish, thoughtful and many more oxymorons. Maybe Shakespeare could even draw inspiration from the personalities of one little teenager. New clothes were wrapped around her chocolate fudge coloured skin with her equally new cat trotting along in front of her.
It was her fault that we were here anyway. Every year her dad sets up a ghost town for the people of Jorvik to come and experience. However, it’s closed. An open ghost town? Scary. A closed ghost town? Petrifying beyond the definition of the world. And yet we were here, hunting the legend of the Mist.
Maybe that’s another word I could have used to describe Arwen? Magical. In the Jorvik sense anyway. Arwen’s riches came from her family’s long standing connections to the druids. In return for their magical services, they could -
A tickling had begun on my hand, the one holding Shade’s robe. It felt that hundreds, no thousands, of bugs tickling their way across my skin.
The windmill had jerked into life. Blades rotating through the air like axes through the night. The lights in one of the houses flickered on, the light burning and intense through the dark. I felt my breath quickening, my head fluttering. The sky came to life. Bats folded out of the night towards us.
All was quiet. The town had taken its fill so it hid itself back into the night. Ever wondered how scarecrow hill came to be?