Luneshale Pass verde

entirely unaware of the interior conflict brewing in saleem's brain, soto breathes in the crisp air.

he cannot put words to it: it's an inexplicit sense of freedom.

success.

triumph.

the taste almost as sweet as sex; knowing he's drawn the blood of his enemies and routed them. committed them wholesale to some other echelon, among the unreachable dead.

he laughs into the frisking wind, the cold air a torrent down his throat.

and then he throws himself into a ranging gallop, surveying the lay of the land as saleem's figure fades behind him.