AutumDragonflame

They called him Dagon.    A third-tier mage, he could reduce entire villages to ash with a snap of his fingers. Yet here he was, stumbling blindly down a muddy hill in the dark. His majik was useless here; he would have to take care of this demon the old-fashioned way.    Dagon could hear his quarry breathing heavily, somewhere up ahead. The succubus had cut a swath through his village, killing every young man she could get her claws into. Only Dagon was immune to her powers, but it took all his majik to hold off her demonic influence. Hence his stalking of the monster like a hunter pursuing a deer.    Slowly now, he crept up on her, the d

Oh, the wishing well of mental health; am I sick or am I well? What's the secret, can you tell? Tell me how to fix myself. Oh, the wishing well of mental health; is this heaven, is it hell? Who's to say, oh, who can tell? I'm not buying what you sell. Oh, the wishing well of mental health; threw a coin in and it fell. You don't know, no, you can't tell. I've just buried it so well. Oh, the wishing well of mental health; I'm not sick, but I'm not well. There's no secret left to tell; there's nothing wrong with needing help.