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The fortune teller will tell my love he has the mark of the were-wolf in his palm. Later that night he'll wake up in the darkness, all the dogs in the neighborhood barking and howling, sensing their master has fears and desires drifting up through the open window as though they are offering themselves to him on the sweet night air. But he'll only want me. He'll slowly lower his mouth opening wider toward my neck fangs bared. Later he'll ask me was it as good for you as it was for me? I'll say yes my love. Later on sheets shredded by his claws, if the villagers come to try to take him away I'll fight them off with a flaming torch. Later I'll softly scratch his stomach to make his muzzle smile, fluff and comb the hair on his ears and love him with all my heart. The Gypsy's have sung songs for centuries around their camp fires that the were-wolf would come. Did the Gypsy's sing songs about you? Write to me! Race: White
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