Mischief Meddlers

Prince deposits us on top of the grey cliffs of Dover. Stands stretching his neck and wings as though he owns Dover. Why up here? I suppose the top of the cliffs is a high vantage point. I follow Frankie’s gaze down below. In the shadow of the cliff’s rises a swirl of smoke and a tent peeks out. At least I can only see one tent in the dark there are probably more.

Frankie gets close to the edge of the cliff. Little pieces of stone crumble away, and tumble down to harsh ground. “Why drop us off up here when we need to be down there?”

“He will have a reason.”

“The reason being it was an easy place for him to land. What’s he showing off about?”

“Being a respectable, feared, member of skeletal society,” I offer.

“Didn’t the others chase him off a couple of hours ago?”

“He’s back. Carries a lot of weight returning so soon after being turned on.”

“I think you mean fool hardy.” Frankie steps away from the edge as more loose cliff ends up down below.