There's no rest for the weary
No, no port in sight
This journey is so dreary
I travel alone
Now I'm treading on water
Can't do this for long
I have no lighthouse spotter
Down under I go

But in your arms is where I find my rest
Yeah, my cerebral port
I call on your heart to make mine steadfast
Oh, my cerebral port

Prologue
He had known it would come and had prepared. There was nothing truly worrisome that they could do to him. Still, it was always good to take precautions. He was glad he did, as he looked down at the chaos below. It was chilling, seeing what the Scrubs were capable of. It was so defiant of what he had always been told, of what he always knew.

The wraiths took to the walls, melting with the shadows of the obsidian. They moved with the grain of the stone, with no one’s noticing them. They were clothed in what seemed to be shadow, as well. The soft black fabric of their suits had no seam, and their contrast with the walls was non-existent as they expertly and silently scaled the thick barricade that stood between them and their targets.
After all, the Yīnyǐng were known to be silent and invisible.

Tic tac
Jaw slack
Got that cherry red lip smack
Back packin' out back

Old hick
With this chick
I'll park for you to see the view
And no, girl, I ain't eyein' you

Sun's low
Home slow
Keep a fellow on his toes
Hit the trail to keep it close

Corvette
You bet
It's time to detour; take a ride
I'm proud to have you by my side

Sweet tea
You and me
Your smile is a sight to see
Pink cheeks no cheat

The waves are a’calling,
They have since I was small.
The men are a’sailing,
To one another they call.

To which will I give my heart,
For I know not who ‘twill be.
Will you calm the seas, my love?
Will you calm the seas for me?

Wynne made it to the barracks of the keep. Warrior women jogged to and from the extensive and solid establishment. Marching girls with blonde braids swaying on their backs passed by her, their blue eyes gazing on her. They whispered behind their small, pale hands in the lilting yet hard language of Skuld. Wynne smiled and nodded to the squadron, who smirked shyly and went on their way.
She knocked on the barrack door, and a lady dressed in a soft buckskin tunic and palla answered.
“Úda’lugha?” she asked plainly.
“Gwceff,” answered Wynne as she entered.

Nóe ran down the hall.
He remembered last night as if it were a second ago. Every memory was vibrant as if it had just happened. Every single word, action, and gesture was crystal clear in his mind.
“Your brother is becoming quite destructive,” mused Lord Crofton, carelessly strolling across his throne room. “It’s become… peeving. And his dog, that mangy, rabid thing… that is a lot to take care of.” He stopped mid-step, then turned to Nóe. “Has he been this way for long?”

The squadron that Master Pritchard dispatched silently scanned the Tywyll. Bowmen and crossbowmen walked behind the dagger-hands and swordmasters. Their feet made little to absolutely no sound as they crossed the cursed forest.
Not many could venture deep in the forest without becoming afflicted with madness. The utter silence could make one’s brain weak. Only, this was deep in the Tywyll; Caislín and her Solitary had stayed within the outskirts.

Wynne snapped awake and quickly pulled on a leather tunic and thick bragae trousers. She stuffed on wool boots and then proceeded to brush out her hair to the best of her ability, then she tied her waist-length locks in a high bun with her faded rose-colored silk ribbon. She sighed with nostalgia each time she laid eyes on it.

I have been longing to write something on Apricotpie for months, but I can't write long works without a computer. Alas, my life does not permit sitting at the computer isolated in the corner of the house. So, instead of something eloquent or a fanciful story, here is a snapshot of the things that go through my head in a day written while a baby was sleeping on me from my cell phone.