A Curse so Precious it Won't be Denied!

Sometimes, when you've got some virus impersonating flu as it line-dances in spiky heels across your limbs; when you've been mauled at work, and up for hours, all you want, all you really, really want is a good book to take to bed. And then, as you scurry about in icy sheets, desperate to warm up your cocoon, it happens again.

A small, whinging voice pelts from the shadows in your head...
"Write. Write now. The Legends need you... You need them!" More persistant it grows, until you can hardly hear the silence, and your inner skull feels filled with wasp-venom. Futility hits, and shell-shocked by the prospect of another day at work on little sleep, you stumble to the keyboard, dragging the duvet behind you, toes curling squeamishly against the cold wood floor. Settled roughly in the chair, your head itches as you wait for Windows to awaken.

Then you begin.