“You miserable witch!” The hulk jumped up from his stool, hissing and spitting. “She hexed me! You all witnessed it! Get her, comrades!”
His next port of call was the bus stop at the technicka univerzita. Students were invariably smokers, at least at some point in their academic lives. And students were rebellious enough and determined to impress their peers enough that they disregarded the smoking ban now imposed at bus stops.
... the gravedigger replied. “A bloody peasant revolt in the whole province, return of the black death, burning of the old Mokvas castle...” “And the best whisky for another two hundred years,” the host added in amusement.
What is the mystery surrounding a homeless magazine seller? Are you prepared to read a mysterious story about about Bratislava written by an Englishman Dale Bruton?
The gravedigger stuck his fingers into the open neck and pulled out something familiar. An amulet adorned with small red carbuncles.
“It’s nice to see you too, uglysome,” the female noted with a dose of sarcasm. “Do you regularly stumble upon a damsel in distress by accident? Or you just need something, as per usual?”
Powerless, he gazed at his leather bag lying on the ground below. He had to get it. He had to retrieve the small casket and its contents. Now more precious than ever. And all before the satyr returned.
Loktibrada first knocked and hammered against the locked door to give his victim the illusion of a relative safety behind the house walls. Then he easily crashed in, pulling the frightened girl from behind the stove.