*snort* The author of the unwritten fanfiction novel Russet Noon,* Lady Sybilla,** also known as Glorianna Arias, is jamming every possible mention of her book onto her page. Positive or not.
So:
Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, Sybilla. You’re still crazy.
* “Russet” referring to Jacob Black’s skin tone, because describing a Native American as russet is totally not racist.
** Protip: Randomly conferring titles on yourself is cool and sophisticated and in no way a red flag for crazy.

Evening was setting in on the streets of Ostmont, and the alcohol had nicely permeated the crowds. There was staggering, there was jostling, woo and fists were being pitched in equal amounts and adjacent quarters. Celino noticed none of it. He drifted past scenes of passion, drama, and truly bad dancing without even a mental comment about shaved monkeys. His mind was filled with the knowledge that:
King Jareth was real.
REAL.
Exactly as advertised.
Except that he was old and ugly, all that youthful liveliness and voluptuousness withered like a plum becoming a …

Tourmaline bet on the bull.
That was more or less customary; the bull’s odds were longer than a week of wet Tuesdays just about every year, and for good reason. A pike was usually more than a match for even the longest horns.
This year’s variety was a giant brindled monster, a colour of smoke gray that breeders would have referred to as ‘blue’. His shoulders bulged, coming to a high crest of muscle that twitched irritably as he eyed the pudgy looking man stuffed into an ornate jacket the …

MedicineWorm: ((Gimme some info on Celino’s room again would ye?))
Cranedance: (Second floor at the back, small, neatly made bed, small table by the small window, chair by the table, hooks on the wall, everything empty. Celino leaves nothing behind.)
—–
In a word, boring. In another few words, boring protected by a lock that was worth precisely one wet shit from a dying dog. It was Van’s professional opinion that though the mechanism was a touch rusty, a determined six year old with a butter knife could have jimmied it. The reason …

Celino waited for the door to close, then settled into the armchair, radiating smugness. Hah. He’d stay so warm you could cook an egg in his trousers. Celino pulled out a book and settled in to keep himself occupied while Aldridge spanked his troops into order.
Half an hour later, Celino was settled in the armchair with a harder chair under his feet; then he wrapped a blanket around himself; and then he was asleep, with the book open in his lap and his chin on his chest.
—–
Ordinarily there was some …