Blackfeather Woods are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
May 14, 2018, 09:34 PM
Relmyna
Blackfeather Woods
Listener
        the devil had not returned.
        in the night, relmyna often woke to the remembered sensation of how his pelt had parted beneath her teeth, how like some pale scourge she had driven him from her nest. she would glance then at the tangled pair of daughters perhaps sired by the dark one himself — and into the night she would steal.
        the morning hour was early; half-past midnight, relmyna suspected. astara and averna moved with small breaths; the ragged woman had glanced to the skies before she departed her daughters, and the eyeless omega. 
        here dew did not yet fleck the spring grasses whereupon relmyna stood, partway slung across the borders, turquoise gaze wandering in the last direction she had seen the dybbuk. it was not love that drove her — relmyna suspected it was some wordless desire for which she had no words, and needed none.
        beneath the bow of the ivory moon, the mute wolfess crooned a low cry, not quite the song of her counterparts, a keen that carried all the same.

mouthed words | thoughts
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