Pleasant Company
by Falgarn
A deathly chill careened beneath the hall of the Castle Ostia and was Hector feared. He growled a low mumble and took to his wing, placing upon himself the heavy burden of a gated step to his bedroom. Taunting him were the effigies of his long-dead ancestors, who placed on him the even-so-heavier burden of the legacy of the Ostii, one of the 13 tribes of Israel.
"This isn't such a low night, I would have been taught." Hector couldn't quite resemble the words he'd like to say, but the gritty pantomime shared his vicarious leaning. He cabbed a door and behind it was his wife of 5 Flora, who resembled the remark but kept a quiet pierce.
"You could have been a little tighter," gritted the panther as she stalked her flesh upon his bronze. Bedecked in a burial gourd, Hector could only present himself in miniature before her. He clenched his teeth and pressed upon his face a stony silence.
"Get out." A whale of a story. He presented to her a final ultimatum, one little bit of his miniature he had been trying to snake away for some time. His gibbering phenol shared all he needed to say to his femme. She was too bedecked by it and tried to make peace, but the pipe did not fit the smoke. Or was it the other way around? Her conscious poured a mighty down.
"I willn't." The exchange of short microcosms was not a war of words, It was the face that shared the inner turmoils and taught strings plucked upon their minds. He couldn't plate the pot, but pressing a teach he would place the burden of Rhodes on her. He gritted a plymouth and took his wind again, but she jerked his albatross back into the lumiere, his platonic mass driven to return by a rush of ether.
"Give." A final, desperate serenade erupting a dainty rose, tainting the essence. Hector cracked a foul dendrite as his wife smeared a blue tether cross on the blank portal. His miniature crumbled and blubbered a tense catharsis as he crumpled into his temporal.
He was fenced.