words and worlds alike
The solitary law that binds Gran Marche’s thieves is this: only filch what you can flip.
Acrid vapors curled, intermingling with Muraganda’s primal mist.
Rivera’s Bodega crouched on the corner of Halberd and Squire, moody and bright like a surly macaw—or a poison dart frog.
It was the Spring Dominion’s final days.