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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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[Ehaema] Single celled seraph

The lines of light move through the darkness and converge into one unbroken streak. For a moment, the line is as stark and flat as a posthumous EEG reading. Then, it begins to beat. One squiggle in isolation, followed by another, and another still. This is the rhythm that lies under everything. This is the mark of beginning.

Eventually the line can no longer be a line. Filled from end to end with exuberance, it dances through the gloom leaving ghosts and afterimages in its wake. Frenetic and free, it beats the air like the flagella of some single-celled seraph, propelling its way through dark currents towards whatever strange nourishment calls to it.

And then there is laughter, young laughter, a low murmur of wonder-tinged merriment. The sound that the courts of the Unseelie mark so very well, for it is how they know their prey is beguiled enough to be caught unawares when they come for their blood gifts, or to spirit their audience away forever.