Emberflame Ridge we like to run with the wolves from the darker scene

The willowy silver-piece had went with them so verily, witherward;
Astraeus didn't know what kind of tag this was, but the thrumming of that little pulse in his breast: it wisps, no, no it barks that this is wrong (wrong, wrong, wrong). Win their game, tread to hearthside, away from the rise, find limestone rest, let illusionary wants manifest in the subconscious of his mind, little prince alone in a dreamscape eldritch majesties; becharmed, fantasia. But now he was caught, betwixt twain putrid feinds, and now triple! Just how damned was he? Oh, how he wished it never would be;
all the same, he could not chip off form the trio and dash, as daggertooths that had been flaunted but a hairsbreadth from his withering little crown, and oft he has to reprimand himself when he thinks to scurry away. Little cowbird envies the pearl that did dawn this epithet on him, romping in the familiars of home and melting into the frame of her mother as sleeps, peacefully. Home, I want to go —

“Home,”
is all he pipes, waxen throat melts and dribbles down into lung as petrified lashes widen, viridian globes searching for any kind of answer, features knit solemnly half-fearful and half-demanding, just a sliver of reprieve is all he wishes for, now.