The Power to Cry
Thunder rumbled as lightning flashed against the velvet darkness of the sky .Inside the basement of a small cottage, a man adorned in robes more rich in fabric than the stormy sky scrambled against time to finish his experiment. He added a handful of sand to a light green mixture on his tiny worktable and the liquid that sparked and frothed .
The man, whose full name was Lord Ryland Myrring, turned to see a pale, raven haired woman , her ball gown’s loveliness marred by a ragged apron and her pale hands clasping a tiny infant. The woman was Ryland’s assistant, Lady Creed.
“What do you want, Creed.”
“The storm,” she answered, “Some people would see that as an omen”
Ryland turned back to his work, “Our kind makes the omens”
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