[Item: green ink, across the shoulders and down the length of the back]
What they say is that he travels, ever travels: his haunts are boundless and his guises many: he goes in coats of sparks or ashes, skins or leaves. All the Ways and all the keys are his. When come upon the sea, he goes around. When came upon a mountain, he goes through. When winter rides the roofs he’ll ride above them, or else walk on fallen towntops, in the snow. He has a little knife to prise out the stars with, a little hammer to break down the dawn with, a little sickle to cut forks of hazel with, which aid him as he seeks. Too, he has a feathered jacket, in which he flies unfettered, magpie – greedy, taking, here and there such souls as shine. His finding – list is in the pocket sewn where he might instead have had a heart. He’s brutal, beautiful, and fey.
They also say:
If he comes to you in dreams, that dream ‘ s your last.
-Pieces of Scheherazade, Nicole Kornher-Stace