The spell you got on me, it's like magic
His eyes crossed with the effort. He could have sworn that the crossroads he stood at looked different just a moment ago. A step back, then a step to the side-- There! For just a moment, the street to the east flickered. Well, 'flickered' might not have been the best word, he considered, but there wasn't really a word for what he had seen. For one brief instant, two streets had occupied the same place in space, and he could see both of them as clearly as if each of them were supposed to be there.
Fog began rolling out of one of the streets, but not the other.
Though it took me by surprise, oh no
She sat down at her desk and unfurled a square of browned parchment. It wasn't the best in the world, but it was what she could afford. One shiny gold piece was all the money she had to her name, and she'd traded it for some parchment and some ink. She was no stranger to living this way, though; she'd bartered similar deals many times with shopkeeps across the world. She pulled a battered journal from her knapsack and began painstakingly recreating and fleshing out the rough maps she'd drawn in her travels.
She turned away from the map for a moment, missing the way it glimmered and sparkled in the torchlight for just a second, then turned back, holding a second notebook. This one held sketches from years and years ago. She liked to make changes in her old maps when new roads got built, just for consistency's sake.
Never give up on you
He followed the fog. It was normally a basic tenet of his that he never went down unfamiliar streets at night, especially ones that he couldn't see down, but in the fog he couldn't have controlled his feet any more than he could have stopped his heart. The two streets rapidly resolved into one - just one street, fog thick enough he could barely see to the ground. He could see the faint shapes of buildings lining the road, a dim light indicating a torch here and there, vague silhouettes watching him from corners. His feet kept beating out the same pattern on the ground.
A spike of fear pierced his mind, but it was all but drowned out by a deep feeling of belonging.
I want to give it back
They were a rare phenomenon, but by no means unheard of. Trap streets - odd, ethereal, barely-there streets that you first see only out of the corner of your eye, that bewitch and confound anyone unlucky enough to stumble into one. It's said that some trap streets have been there for ages, ensnaring passersby and making their own small worlds. They were the product of ill-advised spells and a well-meaning desire to prevent plagiarism.
Not much was known about them otherwise, for perhaps obvious reasons.
Got me feeling like I'll never give up
She squinted at the parchment. The map on it was several days of grueling work. She remembered what happened last time, and she didn't intend to have anyone steal her work again. The tip of her quill trailed down the mountains and plains she'd lovingly rendered, coming to a stop on top of a crossroads in a forgotten corner of a forgotten town. She retraced one road, giving it curves and bends that it never had. Anyone who lived there would know the difference, but if someone copied it, she'd know for sure.
She stood up from her chair and stretched, closing her eyes. The map shimmered, and the still-wet ink around the crossroads pooled slightly. If you crossed your eyes, it could even look like fog.
His eyes crossed with the effort. He could have sworn that the crossroads he stood at looked different just a moment ago. A step back, then a step to the side-- There! For just a moment, the street to the east flickered. Well, 'flickered' might not have been the best word, he considered, but there wasn't really a word for what he had seen. For one brief instant, two streets had occupied the same place in space, and he could see both of them as clearly as if each of them were supposed to be there.
Fog began rolling out of one of the streets, but not the other.
Though it took me by surprise, oh no
She sat down at her desk and unfurled a square of browned parchment. It wasn't the best in the world, but it was what she could afford. One shiny gold piece was all the money she had to her name, and she'd traded it for some parchment and some ink. She was no stranger to living this way, though; she'd bartered similar deals many times with shopkeeps across the world. She pulled a battered journal from her knapsack and began painstakingly recreating and fleshing out the rough maps she'd drawn in her travels.
She turned away from the map for a moment, missing the way it glimmered and sparkled in the torchlight for just a second, then turned back, holding a second notebook. This one held sketches from years and years ago. She liked to make changes in her old maps when new roads got built, just for consistency's sake.
Never give up on you
He followed the fog. It was normally a basic tenet of his that he never went down unfamiliar streets at night, especially ones that he couldn't see down, but in the fog he couldn't have controlled his feet any more than he could have stopped his heart. The two streets rapidly resolved into one - just one street, fog thick enough he could barely see to the ground. He could see the faint shapes of buildings lining the road, a dim light indicating a torch here and there, vague silhouettes watching him from corners. His feet kept beating out the same pattern on the ground.
A spike of fear pierced his mind, but it was all but drowned out by a deep feeling of belonging.
I want to give it back
They were a rare phenomenon, but by no means unheard of. Trap streets - odd, ethereal, barely-there streets that you first see only out of the corner of your eye, that bewitch and confound anyone unlucky enough to stumble into one. It's said that some trap streets have been there for ages, ensnaring passersby and making their own small worlds. They were the product of ill-advised spells and a well-meaning desire to prevent plagiarism.
Not much was known about them otherwise, for perhaps obvious reasons.
Got me feeling like I'll never give up
She squinted at the parchment. The map on it was several days of grueling work. She remembered what happened last time, and she didn't intend to have anyone steal her work again. The tip of her quill trailed down the mountains and plains she'd lovingly rendered, coming to a stop on top of a crossroads in a forgotten corner of a forgotten town. She retraced one road, giving it curves and bends that it never had. Anyone who lived there would know the difference, but if someone copied it, she'd know for sure.
She stood up from her chair and stretched, closing her eyes. The map shimmered, and the still-wet ink around the crossroads pooled slightly. If you crossed your eyes, it could even look like fog.