Michael's tribe was one of warriors. Their magic was rooted in guttural blood-lust, the feeling of knife ripping into flesh and the enraged satisfaction of wound infliction, the tear of teeth in sinew. Their magic made them strong and fast and unafraid. They were soldiers of the music of beyond.
But not Michael.
Michael was strong too. But in his ears he heard more than just the war drum of the beyond: a pulsing legato strung all the facets of life together with timbres he couldn't name. It was uneasy and made him shiver, half of ethereal beyond-joy and half of terror of the most essential roots.
It was gorgeous and wailing and unspeakable. It made his soul wild and made a thousand sunset flowers bloom in him, coloring him deeper than the soil they danced upon.
His final glance both pitying and loving, Michael slipped away from his tribe and the current Hunt.
It wouldn't be long until the tribe noticed part of the left flank missing. Michael pranced off as if he was a mountain raising at septuple time.
No prequels yet. Why not write one?
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When one is not satisfied with the glory of destruction, one finds oneself outside the tribe. 'Tis a human story.