Eight

The lights were back on, illuminating Terry’s cabin. Well that was odd, she thought, her hand distinctly on the handle of her carrying case. She didn’t quite remember reaching for it, but it could just as easily have been instinct. On her hand were the clean lines of alchemical symbols, tattooed on in simple black font. She held her hands in position, counting a steady two minutes staring at the door. Then she relaxed. 

Though she couldn’t rule out the possibility of an incident, the outage was far too short to discount as just an accident. Terry slid the deadbolt to the locked position and sat back down. 

Elsewhere, the lights flickered on, bouncing off the heavy haze of smoke layering the cabin. A lone man sat sprawled out, undisturbed, a sweet smoke coming off the bundle held in his lips. A large pole arm lay diagonally across the entire cabin, nearly touching opposite corners, nestled safely in the crook of his arm. 

“Man. Where the hell am I?” He said, his voice low, not deep like rolling thunder, but rough like a saw through wood.

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