Tweet of the Day: Weather Thesaurus Entry: Dusk
Five years and three hours into the day the War had come to an end.
The day the Dark Lord fell.
Nine young witches and wizards made their way through the darkened forest. Behind them the castle slept after the ruckus of a Champion’s victory. The Tournament had come again. But none in the little group cared.
Their champion was dead.
They wore dark tattered school robes that covered them from head to toe. School and House patches ripped off, no sign of allegiance on display. The leader stopped in a mossy clearing, the dark trees formed a wall of silence around them.
He tossed a skull on the ground. It landed upside down. The others formed a circle around the skull. He took out a long sewing needle from his robes and passed it to the one that stood on his left.
“Begin,” he ordered in a thick accent.
The witch exposed her slender left arm and pierced the flesh with the needle. A long stream of blood cascaded on the skull. A green flame erupted from within.
She started the chant:
Today Our Lord Fell,
The needle passed to the next.
Cast Down Through Lies and Treason,
Each fresh drop fed the fire. Each participant stepped forth in turn.
Brought Low Through Inferior Reasons,
None of the group filched.
And Although Some Have Forgotten,
The Truths Bespoken,
We have Kept the Faith,
Until This most Joyous Day,
Their eyes glittered as the flames rose higher.
We are the Inferi,
Whose Blood is Pure and Our Dreams Will Never Die!
The last drop fell. The fire consumed the cursed chalice. They cried in rapturous unison: