Jherek lay upon his bed within the Elfsong Tavern, asleep and yet not fully asleep. His eyelids were closed and, beneath them, his eyes spun as if he were possessed. A slight creaking of the door to his room urged him to wakefulness. A shadow passing his curtained window suggested an intruder. A light exhalation told him someone was near at hand.
On a clouded, windy night, down a dingy backstreet in the City of San Francisco, a lone woman strode boldly and alone. Her low-heeled steps, emitted by knee-highs, crunching audibly upon loose gravel and discarded needles. The sounds magnified against the looming brick walls on either side. Rats, roaches, and other such vermin scurried from her path and those cast-off peoples who dwelled there on the ever-shrinking fringes of society shrunk away, covering their faces so as not to catch her eye.
Hear us now, the thrice-scarred youth
The Mistress of the Wolves
With beast she met on glen on fen
Soft whispers, soft touches
You hungry for more? I ask as I pump The salty, thick serum You lust for throughout your quivering, firm body Slick from night duties Performed with a care Most would deem rare.
It was the strange sounds that roused the man from his slumber. The snuffling of inquisitive noses as well as the soft crunching of careful footsteps in fresh fallen snow. Through small spaces in the walls of his cabin, the light of the full moon shone but every now and then one of these meager sources of light would go dark for but a moment as some hulking form passed.
With feather-soft touches kissing flesh, I need you,
I kneel before you, thusly knighted, Betwixt slick, smooth thighs I dine delighted,