20091110

8TH FLAME.


Ken dey ta. Speak in tongues. It makes you feel like a spiritualist leader. Kahr le luha. Whatever sound rips through you. Pouring like magic notes over a dune, pooling against the sides of your skull with a soft "shllickt". Taga nan sensavah yal. Fall for childlore one last time.

My private life as a wolf has been quite easy. I tear down walls. I run, I howl. I carry friends and lovers on my back. The snow yields to my feet. My black hair is as dark as the universe, and shines like diamond-dusted silk underneath a moon that is always full. My breath takes the shape of a devil in the cold, cold night. I smear my muzzle with thick blood from the insides of an animal. I'll stalk anything but a shadow. I have only allies.

Whatever council judges you. Whatever dealer places his bid. Whatever strikes you dead at whatever age, in whatever place. Whether you shuffle casually or with a frantic energy. Ho-hum. I hardly care.

A mole is the mark of a witch. A mark as if from a potion-laced kiss.

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