The Ghosts of Sleath
“Although he had paid it little mind before, he now craned his neck to take in its faded detail. The black fur and yellowed tusks of the huge wildeyed beast depicted there seemed to quiver with rage. Although a crude work, its paint cracked and flaked away in places, the picture still conveyed the ferocious strength of its subject. Perhaps it was the madness in the boar’s reddened eyes that gave the painting its potency, or perhaps it was because of the animal’s stance, shoulders hunched, one ho...of raised and pointed as if to paw the ground; or perhaps it was merely the contrast between the fearsome image and the tranquil setting it glowered over that startled the observer. But then, it seemed Sleath was a village of contrasts.
He dropped his gaze to look around him. The pond, with its overlay of rising mist, no longer appeared so placid to him: somehow it was too still, too deep. Further along the stocks and whipping post presented a stark and shameful reminder of Sleath’s more sinister past rather than the interesting relics he had thought them when he’d arrived.MoreLess
He dropped his gaze to look around him. The pond, with its overlay of rising mist, no longer appeared so placid to him: somehow it was too still, too deep. Further along the stocks and whipping post presented a stark and shameful reminder of Sleath’s more sinister past rather than the interesting relics he had thought them when he’d arrived.MoreLess
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