favissa (a cache of sacred objects that are no longer in use); Arkwright (a skilled craftsman who produces wooden chests or coffers (Arks)); crimson; corset; delve; cacophony (discordant and mixture of harsh sounds); imp; (a little devil or demon, an evil spirit, or mischievous child); pyre; reflection; subterfuge; clandestine; flutter; Extra twisted bonus phrase “Someone is walking over my grave” (a sudden response to a sudden [inexplicable] shudder or shivering [usually a cold, goose-flesh sensation])
A feverish man lay sweat-slathered. “Someone is walking over my grave,” he whispered to his dead-bed companion, a tight corseted female imp. She grinned: “Well Arkwright, will you rise to craft your own coffin?”
“The Elders will choose the crimson purge of pyre,” he replied through shriveled lips.
“Reflection time, delve deep” sang the imp, dancing on his chest, creating a cacophony of heart-beats fluttering in his ears.
“Where is your precious favissa?” she cooed, nuzzling his quivery neck, “Best begin your clandestine meetings with the Darkness.”
“Life is but a subterfuge,” he murmured. “Death will not welcome me.”
Clang of bell. Shouts of “bring out your dead.”
The imp laughed, closing his eyelids, and with a swirl of her tiny feet, moved on.