Dearest, I’m in a hurry.
Things seem to have recently developed an undesirable life of their own. You know more about it than I do, so I’ll keep it short.
The moon is waning after a fiery ride. A storm opens up to the West and the thunder calls to Dragon’s Lair. Six snakes of troubled blood there are, maybe ten. More I do not dare fathom.
Your blades are stolen, keen to taint your noble name, whose signature adorns the steel so amicably. Your honour is my duty, so I shall return them back into your care. Moreover, shall the owl’s cote soon, supplied with fresh blood, proclaim to all the ferocity with which I’ve conquered you. My work tonight is judgment yours, and so I must escape thine fair eyesight once more. May I be sure of your deep longing.
Nevertheless, you shall not be entirely devoid of me, although ‘tis only nimble words that seek your favour. It has been far too long since I saw your features frail. You may scold me a liar, speaking of six nights as if they were six dozen. However, the gentle waves of your thighs, still moistened by the sweet dew of my breath, assure you that no lie was told. The truth my tongue expresses, as it caresses the waves so bold, more and more, until my owl will spread her plumage. Then my owl dove quickly feline comfort gains, with claws that don’t renounce the carnal lust despite the blush of shame.
What would I give to know these sharpened claws as my escort tonight, when I carry the enemies of your court with fervour into the graves? Just one claw, maybe two. More I do not dare to fathom.
The stern sword at your delicate hand
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