Stalk thy prey and let loose thy talons upon the Darkness.
What is this feeling?


The fire has nearly died. The Crow fell over and cannot stand, though he insists he is fine. The Guardian is turning the embers with the tip of their Sword. The Ghosts are talking to one another in quiet conspiracy. The celebration has ended, but I can sense their emotions are mixed: complex and myriad things, when a simple, singular focus would suffice.

There is a growing kinship here. Against better judgment.

What is this feeling?

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