Lion Head Mesa a whispering god

disagreeable. senmut thought of the man who had pinned him, had held him; had introduced pain and its sinful pleasure in just a series of searing moments, that time here of which he had never spoken.

and until now he had not thought of it this day, and felt a swift sickness he kicked down inside himself. "and what became of tavina?"

tones holding now an ice they had not before. once more he lifted his touch to wash one of machiavelli's forearms as a terrible, terrible seething started to grow from a singular root.