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Winter's White

The red almost drowned Uriel in its drunken tang of delusion, and Dionysus could only slur scraps of a sentence Uriel longed to hear.

His limbs ached so terribly. And oddly enough, all he can begin to remember is being slumped against a tree with the redness of raw meat thrown at him. Could almost feel the glimmer of something that shouldn't have a physical sensation, the greenish glimmer, tingling and healing. It took the scrape of something against the balcony floor to snap him back to the present. He scoffed, shook his head, and walked up.

His steps were quiet, feathery, almost as if he wasn't there: walked as if he entered a room full of nails with no shoes. He didn't know why he was being so mute, but figured it had something to do with the fact that this person could be armed. He couldn't help the nth scoff he released at his own stupidity.

"Hey, the fuck do you think you're doing in my pent

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