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Christmas GiftIt was a year later. The winter was as cold and unforgiving as ever but it seemed as though nothing was the same. In that year, so much had changed. The pack Prism had gotten to know so well had split apart, enemies formed and alliances broken. The ghost who had plagued Prism the previous year was now a member of her pack. There were new pups running around and those who had been pups were now adults and finding their own lives. She'd been introduced to Pucos and Ventrian and even rare Herocs. She'd seen death and heartbreak as the Nerox Ether tried to escape his own abilities. She'd seen joy as new parents welcomed their first offspring into the world. She'd experienced so much and she knew precisely who was responsible for it.
Sargoth, of course. The male who had so long ago rescued her had become her mate. The two had set precedence among Exordia. Their bond and vow to remain together forever had prompted other pairs to follow suit. It still wasn't a common practice but it wasn't un
What If?Zemira sunk to the ground, her strength failing her. It had happened. Just when she had allowed herself to think that she would be with Silark forever. Her heart was broken. The tears came and did not stop for many days. He was gone. And Zemira could not do anything without him.
The signs had been present for a while. Zemira had tried to ignore them, but they haunted her. She tried to distract Silark and be the woman he wanted her to be. Yet still, Zemira saw the changes taking place. She would never have thought that Silark would leave. She had never thought that she would feel as she did. Zemira told herself that she was just being paranoid. That it was simply a rough patch and that everything would go back to normal. She told herself that Silark would never leave her.
Not for another woman.
A half-copper dragon had come upon the party. She was beautiful and gentle. Her skin seemed to catch every stray ray of light and reflect it back. The effect was that she shone, even in shadow. H
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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