Literature
I Have to Let Go
Magic has distinct aromas. The fresh vibrant scent like freshly cut grass as healing winds bless one's wounds. A sharp, distinct acidic shock like bitter lemons when creatures are summoned into being. Then there is the sickening fowl stench of death. You may think you know it, but unless you have witnessed the curse, you know not of its vile smell. It drenches every pore of your skin with a vomitous bile that even divine tears could never wash out. Even your tears are polluted with the toxic waste of the curse as they fall from stinging bloodshot eyes. Yannis. Lazarus. Taven. Harvarous. Their oozing, decaying corpses lay rotting at my feet, their blood tainted to an odorous, viscus, grey substance that stained the ground beneath them; their eyes melted into black, rotten piles of gelatinous slag. The liquified skin gently flowed like a dead river, collecting at my feet. Yet the greatest offence to my senses was the sound of laughter. Grating, high-pitched, wretched cackling. The mage –