The night is winding down to the swamp.
Bianchi vapors to skeletal twisted pines, moss hanging from the branches, like shreds of clothing, defeats, and wisps floating in the water muddy. On the whole, a full moon, which spreads its silver light on this secret world. The streets running off from here, not even the hunters in the fall is to break the silence is strong. From time immemorial the only footprints that mark the gray mud muddy expanses of these are ours. Those
children of the dusk.
Me and my mother.
When the sun rises in ragged clouds, rises slowly above the mist, I go out of my den covered with moss, and through the marsh, pushing me to the border.
There, stones stand, carved by people who can not walk more long under the sky. Idols with large eyes that look grim towards the swamp, monitor brands, where the land ends and the domain of men begins to enemies.
say who protect them. They say they stand guard. But I have never done anything and I step in front of them, hiding their faces to the inquiring eyes. I
Corinth between the roots projections of twisted trees, hidden in the shadows, spying among the leaves and thorns, and look to pass that those who live in the fortress.
On sunny days come and go hunting in the forest.
I listen to their words and their laughter, I look at them competing on horses from the harness of silver, the flashy clothes, rings and bracelets that glow in the sun like flame.
And then, when night falls, when the shadows lengthen and darkness will prevail over the light, I followed them, in secret.
They do not care about the dogs that howl and cower with the tail down between the legs of horses.
They are not aware of complaints of livestock, as they pass on the streets and head to the immense palace on the hill.
I spy on them over the fence, from behind the fences that surround the village, I follow them with longing eyes, knowing that I was denied access to their domains.
I'd curl up in foul, as the moon rises from the pine forest blacks winds and fog on the ground, and stands in silence, covering, slowly, the walls and hedges, silencing the sheep and dogs ...
white And in the silence I hear it again, that sound, so beautiful and so awful ... Someone in the room sounds.
I plug my ears, but I tend to feel more ...
a sublime sound that reminds me with hatred for me is that those strings are plucked, which I listen to is denied, not for me the stories are told, not me or my people speak ...
then gritted his teeth and mangle your fingers between the rocks. The branches of the trees move as I passed, full of terror, while I return to the swamp. There
other cursed beings bow their heads at my approach, and huge serpents swimming in gray plunge.
the night, leave only footprints on the dew of my fingers.
Until the day comes when I decide to violate the ban last.
still echoes the horrible instrument, and the wind carries the notes in the dark, like leaves caught by air currents. I scream to cover the sound, the curse of the snake with my tongue, and claw the air, I could almost broken.
slide over the statues, shadow among the shadows, as silent. As the mist rises I become vapor, which floats on the wind, heavy smell of sulfur comes dall'acquitrino.
And there is the palace, high in its splendor, the roof covered with deer antlers, slender wooden columns decorated, stands against the night as the tallest pines in the forest.
Fires burn on the towers, but the warriors who patrol their world I did not see nor hear me. They feel the restlessness that just takes the dogs, suddenly silent, trembling like puppies. I
creeps in dark corners, away from the lights flickering, and stroking their seasoned oak doors, bracing polished metal. I know I can not stand at my touch, that even the most ingenious windows are closed, if my powerful arm strikes them, if my body will press hard.
I feel like an intruder, in this world that I was banned, everything tells me I should not be here, that in doing so I challenge him who has separated, meticulous, Good and Evil.
But I do not care.
I watch them laughing unaware that precious drink from the cups, singing songs of joy, not knowing that an enemy has entered in their village. Without knowing that an intruder slipped unseen into their world, and is about to destroy it.
Why not stand your laughter and your songs.
not stand the sound of your precious things and hurt my eyes. I hate the crowded banquet and that your master is already old, who looks with joy his subjects and his prosperous domains.
When the lights go down and all is quiet, I enjoy thinking that shouting and singing, will rise tomorrow. What's red and gold, will be painted their clothes. And instead of crying harps will echo in the night.
collect them while they sleep.
how to break the branches that kept me the way, so I separate the limbs from bodies and devour my flesh with my sharp teeth.
paint the walls of carmine and spreads the floor with bones.
Then I go back into the swamp, but before I leave my offering to the protectors of the world that I have broken.
The mist in the morning is dyed red.
On the wings of the wind come the screams, and I now watch them collect the heads, which I placed at the foot of their guardians, red eyes and hollow cheeks.
From this night will still be crying, those who see the light of tomorrow, while those that occur under my fingers will only see darkness and darkness, through the empty sockets of skulls.
They are waiting for me raised today.
Fear vibrates in the air, music that does not offend my ears like that of the harp.
They are there, piled up, with swords in their hands. Make a loud voice so as not to feel a trembling, are over thirty and believe that it is enough.
I let them wait.
I look with patience the moon across the sky and when it is almost dawn, and their eyes are heavy, when the stress of waking has undermined their intent, slide out of the dark.
languishing in the flames of the torches are a flash in their eyes suddenly wide open.
no longer closes.
Then I hear the blood dripping, that ticks on the floor by the broken benches. The boards are smoking and the smell of death spreads in the palace.
My footsteps echo on the set.
'm the Wanderer of the brand, a being who is not of this world. Even now, who are master, escapes me, as if my touch of horror.
The classrooms are dark and deserted. Those who fled are not dead and now only the old lord sat silent in the room, awaiting a decree from Heaven.
None next to him.
I watch from afar and laugh at his misery.
There are no more talk around the fire, nor knights galloping to the moors to the forest.
No sound and no singing, even the candles are lit to dispel the darkness.
I am the master of the high classrooms, this rich palace carved in gold, but I have not made inroads into their world.
I have just brought a piece across the border.
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