The harsh winds blew, causing the few trees that dotted the landscape around the small cave to bend over backwards under their unrelenting assault.
Inside the cave, a large fire blazed, surrounded by figures who shared the same russet coloured hair and the same hazel brown eyes.

All of them watched an old male, his russet hair greying and hazel eyes filled with a quiet sort of wisdom, sit himself down on a log that took up most of the space of the area surrounding the fire. He was accompanied by an even older female, hair completely grey and face a mass of wrinkles. 

The pair watched those who watched them, until the male broke the stare off to look deep into the flames.

“The tale I’m about to tell you,” he began in a slow, quiet voice, “is the story I think all of you should have been told many years ago. It is the story of how our numbers came to grow. It is how we came back from the brink of extinction.”

“It begins with a girl and ends with a woman. A woman named Cera.”

@writersloth @strawberryspaceship @rosella1356

on her kind of love

cheshireinunderland:

She wasn’t completely lying when she had told Ainsley that the only people she could see herself falling in love with were dead. 

Truthfully, if she was going to be honest, she had fallen a little bit in love with every ghost she’d ever met and talked to and spent a decent amount of time with. 

The ones that she called hers were the ones she’d fallen the most in love with. They had seen her dark, rotten insides and she’d seen theirs in return. 

She loved them because they knew everything about her and she knew everything about them.

She did love Kiandre, but it was a different kind of love. A less twisted kind. A kind of love that wasn’t really love.

@writersloth @strawberryspaceship @rosella1356

from the mouth of a teenage medium

cheshireinunderland:

The thing about being a medium is  that you don’t get a choice. You see dead people everywhere and anywhere you go cause, lets be real, what place doesn’t have it’s fair share of ghosts?

You could go to a coffee shop and there could be a ghost in clothing from well over a hundred years ago sitting at one of the tables, moving whenever someone walked over to sit down. 

You could walk down a modern street and observe ghosts from half a century ago going about their daily lives as if they weren’t dead, pausing only when a car or a person walked through them.

You could go anywhere in the world, hospitals, forests, beaches or deserts and you would see ghosts.

Anshee knew that people that couldn’t see would find that sad.

She found it comforting.

@writersloth @strawberryspaceship  @rosella1356 

There was beauty in her, people would say, talking in hushed voices, sneaking glances from the corner of their eyes at the girl with bright orange hair and obsidian eyes. If she spent time in the sun and put on enough weight to no longer be considered a skeleton, she could have the world.

It always made her laugh.

No matter how long she spent in the sun, her skin never darkened. No matter how much she ate, she remained the same. 

A pale shadow lurking where she couldn’t be seen, just out of the corner of your eye, forever half listening to the words of the dead.

Once, when she was 14, her hair had been compared to fire and her eyes to coal. 

It made sense. Her hair was the only bright thing about her, with her dark eyes and dark clothes and twisted nature, and her eyes were cold, like coals were unless they were burned.

Perhaps, just like coal, her eyes would one day be turned to ash and close forever, killing the fire.

I dont really have enough followers to have a tag list so I’ll just tag the people who showed an interest in the other part: @writersloth @strawberryspaceship @rmorada @rosella1356