In the lock-holes, it’s called ‘tip the bottle’: none can turn letter who’s marked, so it’s wet sheets, snow-cold on bare skin, for their violinist. It’s days without even poorbread cookie crumbs, and kneeling, arms pendant overhead, for hours, while comfortably chaired, Balhir rests boots on bowed back.
“No money’s worth the fork and rope,” Ambarin says, after a shift spent watching eyes moon-white with fear and glassy as crystal plead mercy.
Hal snorts. “Savior of wharf monkeys! You’re peach fuzz,” he declares. “It’ll end soon, sweetheart.” Hal grins at Ambarin’s skepticism. “Seedy little tail’s got a pretty Longnecked weakness...”
Prompt: bottle, wharf, violin, moon, monkey, fork, hole, lock, sheet, pendant, crystal, cookie, letter, money, tail, chair, bread, seed, peach, snow, rope