Thursday, April 17, 2014

100 Words a Day 587

Mclean looked out the window of the Celestial Keep. He could see Storm Island, home of the elementalist, floating in its perpetual thunderstorm. The black clouds roiled, sending purple lightning to slam into the ground below. Mclean had read that the storm had left the world below crisscrossed with lines of craters, though he had never left the floating islands and could not speak to the veracity of such things.

The door opened; it was one of the acolytes, wearing a white robe.

“Teacher, they are ready in the hall.”

Mclean nodded and followed the young man down the stairs.

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