I write sins, not tragedies
They’re fucking everywhere. They bounce, hissing, out from around the Barrows, little tiny fangs bared and Wessex hisses right back, with a well placed kick. But they there are the bigger ones, the real award-winning pumpkins (not those decorative gourds you can buy in stalls), but the kind farmers grow for contests. They’re harder to destroy. Much harder.
And once Wessex begins a strategic retreat, willing to conceded, but not willing to flee entirely, they seem to know. More appear. Then more. Until the General is yelling furiously at them, some loud and well-chosen insults bouncing off their hard shells as easily as they do on the ground. Pride keeps her there, inching back, the hem of her pants spattered in gourd guts, until her heels touch the edge of the steps. Then the Wraith is climbing it, slowly, trying to lure the vampire gourds the staircase and to their doom.
And once Wessex begins a strategic retreat, willing to conceded, but not willing to flee entirely, they seem to know. More appear. Then more. Until the General is yelling furiously at them, some loud and well-chosen insults bouncing off their hard shells as easily as they do on the ground. Pride keeps her there, inching back, the hem of her pants spattered in gourd guts, until her heels touch the edge of the steps. Then the Wraith is climbing it, slowly, trying to lure the vampire gourds the staircase and to their doom.
WESSEX
