As blood draining from a grievous mortal wound, the energy tursla summoned seeped. A slender man in his twenties, a peddler by the look of his bag, stood in the doorway beating road-dust from his clothing. He let in the clutch, easing out into the traffic.
Screaming never made the truth truthful, at least, not to us.
I am the umble instrument of umbly serving him, and he puts me on an eminence i hardly could have hoped to reach.