The ravens are circling tonight, as they have for days now.  The fire one county over has left burning carcasses strewn across every valley and ravine, scrubland and pond,  yet they circle here, over my house.  I guess we are all death dealers in our own way, Fire, scavengers, killers like me, doing the work of a God I can no longer pray to.  I now serve a god that  is more primal, more real than anything ever found in a book or a buried temple.  I serve Death, and I deserve everything it has to offer me. Fly along black beauties, this street already has its death dealer.


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