Heir to a failed endeavour, and part of a world that no longer knows his name, Edgar wears misery as a courtesan might wear cheap perfume; liberally and without question.

And when the family estate descends into ruin, he finds himself in search of absolution, only to befriend Richter, an old knight more broken than he. Together they seek to forge a place for themselves with the foolishness of a child in search of sugar, and face the prying eyes of a world beyond mortal sight.

Dark are the paths, unhindered by light. But they are not alone.

Eventually, fortune leads them towards the loose threads of a long-abandoned quest, of which they hope to decorate their futures a new shade of gold and cleanse themselves of the dross that so heavily weighs upon their souls.

A take of meandering endeavours and strange places, Overmorrow is set in the bleak realm of Winter Gloaming, a place so wrong as to become obsession; a rictus, lawless rime, ravens against the glass, laughter up on the wind...

It is but another unloved tome, lingering like a poet's last words upon a dusty shelf, given over to hastily embellished prose and endless, grey vistas.

A smirk above the rim of solitude.

"It took me a lifetime to discover the true nature of darkness,. Yet all I needed to do was invert my eyes.." - Edgar J. Blacke