Greatwater Lake dirty soul to take

the whisperings among the trees twine together as a symphonic hymn, merging and severing, crawling delicately along the sensitive, albeit cracked flesh of the woods. past words, clippings of the enchanting allure fair whore maidens and virulents alike once kissed the air with through parted lips, now long-gone cold and peeled back by the prying nails of time and his wretched sister rot. the trees appear to weep for the past inhabitants, encumbered by the weight of the foul mists and reeking of ten thousand corpses. tragic in that it may very well be the truth- ironic in that those bodies are warped and mutilated beneath the strangling curves of each tree's malicious root, a secret ill-kept by their stooping and awkward leaning. still, those whispers rustle amidst the dead living, a lament and a testament to that which continues to linger.

like fingers picking their practiced way up the path of a patient's leg, ready to tickle the fancy out of the cloth and skin, the murmurs and hissing that caress one particular creature's spine offer him no pleasure, only dread. one rather wizened looking tree hunches its ancient back to watch greedily over the canine's shoulder, invisible eyes peering with a sinful derision at the quivering of the red wolf below it. peculiar how often these two coincide, that of greed and disgust. perhaps we cannot stand our own reluctance, our mutinous desire for all things not yet possessed. the tree is practically taking the wolf into its own when he starts abruptly, two awkward paws shuffling and rubbing eachother in an endlessly anxious fidget. lips quiver with a piteous uncertainty, over-sized ears swiveling to and fro, more oft curving backwards to settle the fur upon the back of his neck. no heady musk could possibly perfume the radiant stench of fear that breathes from his very pores; dear atramedes, ye who smells of piss and fear and a sickening lack of hygiene, what scares you so? an abundance of mud plasters the lower ends of his undeniably glorious fur- so glorious that it is plausible to cause vomiting on sight. where red meets the darkest onyx, it grows near blinding. perhaps the mud is for the best, little one.

with a nervous jerk, both paws snap to his luxuriously long, satin tail, crushing the appendage into his embrace and casting pupil-less blue eyes about in a most uncomely fashion. and the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting. and so he waits, he waits for whatever might descend upon him, to lap up his fetid soul and devour him where others will not.