It’s so cold: like a wolf’s air-house in the deep winter on the mountain, yes. But their deep fur caresses them & vessels the sweet heat scavenged from sparkle-white dust. I will use this knowledge for myself, to warm myself with every preyed heat-mote of joy, to cloak myself with a pulsating fur that sends thrills down my spine, from my eyes to my heart, from my ears to my manhood, from my toes to the hair raising on the top of my head.
I know of another tribe just across the plain who harness the Negative Eon God’s powers, flirting with Dusk-spells & the draining of sacred spirits, life-leeching of glow-light mushrooms…I wonder about the dark wolf they worship. His navy eyes of I see on their religious bracelets and pottery are breath-taking, a shade of blue so hard to dye.
…their crops grow far better than ours and they have more horses than I can count…
But their tribe is resentful. They suck the cold on the dust-air & take it straight to a stone heart. I wonder if they’ve even met real wolves.