Words on the floor, read in passing, “Goblins hide gold in the sunset.”
Trifling things these missives of riddles, pages upon pages now tainted with red. Black should be the blood of the page, a flow only of ink, metaphorical blood. Mixing the two, the real and symbolic, rarely goes well and sows seeds of dismay.
Stories of magic hint from the text, “Faeries find gold in the light of sunrise.”
She moves with a tread both cautious and dainty. Quick feet. Quick hands. A quick work done in the night. Thieves among thieves make for good reading, so she stops here and there to take in tales.
Said the old man with his pen, “Trust neither in darkness; keep fast your sword.”
He’d moved in the night, a lascivious turn. Murmurs and whispers escaped lightly his dreams. The name on his lips was one best forgotten. Tools easy at hand, covered by dark, she made her rejoinder a swift, quiet end.
With red proof upon, one last page gave warning, “The goblin may bite you, but the faerie will gut you.”