Wapun Meadow i can feel your teeth on my paper-moon skin

a chill rendered his spin as her body contacted him; she sent her muzzle down his flank, the heat of her body emanating across her body to his. he was not ignorant to the sensation that thrilled him; he knew what had overcome her, and if she would allow it, he would gladly rid her of its pesty existence.

she returned his song with a cutting call of her own -- it dwarfed his song by sheer measure, crawling through the sky in high pitches that he was incapabale of. as her muzzle was tilted to the sky he brought himself closer, throwing his head up in wild abandon, a shrill rejoinder issued through his slim muzzle.

he sang to her of the shadowed copses of the south -- of the verdant rims of saltwater pools of his homeland, of the limestone rimmed lips of the agua clara -- he sang to her of the silence that settled around dusk and the chitter of bats and denizens of the deep recesses of distant caves. finally he sang to her the bloodbath of his people, the fierceness of his gods, and the cruel exile of his iniquity -- each song was fevered in pitch and accompanied by tentative notes of sorrow -- and when he had finished his story he drove his muzzle to hers, his eyes locked to her own in rapture, wanting deeply of her flesh.