The lycans swept the scheming vampires off the parapets and through a steep cliff-like drop into the teaming streets. Wails and whoops, punctuated by whistles and oohs, crept over the glittering mass and swollen rash that is humanity and humanoidity rippling via fractured purpose the gaiety the enrapture the brace of the things that serve us.
A river of oil, of almond, of wheat, no, not wheat, swirls, so many confection swirls. The river lycans elope with the sea glow and float on to the ethereal stream that the meadow elves know as the Jet Stream. Their energy wildly in flux, borne aloft or sinking at the whim of breezes, tufts the forest carpet tenderly in gloom.
They saw no sun but little moon wandered with them.
They experimented with color. The oumpyres wore only black.
They enjoyed the legumes and forestry pecans but also the bitter-fruited almond tree seed.
They adored the harp and altar of the night but would snatch glimpses of the fabric filled buttercup sky at daybreak.
Lycans.