Spitfire

For Spitfire, the Wolf The pack breathes forth crystal- mists, ghosting the landscape like wraiths leaving the abyss. In sarcophogy-effigyy. A Eulogy in cacophony Serving their own.Stead. Fates in cognition. Roundtable and Moordread. Satelliting their own volition. By the knight in their eyes like moons. Marauders by their own admission. They howl the private joke, giving homage to the light that looms. They are a nemesis of the bones, last confession. Stalwart offenders, but defenders of the ruins. Iconoclast runes of nightmare. Contenders to the throne. Snarled and trapsed around the cold laid bare. They are the strong. Fierce about life, all winter long. Defenders of Ruin and Brook and ripples last stare. Snarled and trapsed around the cold laid bare like a binding of rune around a forbidden book of seer. Wolves, like all animals have integrity. They do not think "pluck my life" or "I wish I had a dragon to crush my enemies". They do not gossip or seduce or In their purposes-disbelieve. They are fierce about life, in the deepest cold. In the hardest of times. They embrace their circle and often let another in, in circumstances, Dire untold under watchful, smiling eyes. Spitting Fire