We crept along the hoary ridge, boots breaking the blades of green-grey glass under our feet. We did not look down, but ahead, toward our prize.


A veritable feast awaited us, ready to assail our senses. We knew it, even if the halls were cold, even if the floors were thick with dust that bore no footprints save those of mice. Even if there was nothing, it would be everything, for we would be together again — we three.

Together, and home.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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