A-top the blacktop wondered a black cat, her fur the kind of noir that showed the greys and weathered imperfections of the road.
A cat of perfect black walked the pathways she was born to own: head high, tail up, limbs in sleek precision.
The fabric of the black heavens came to us then in feline form, eyes star-bright, whiskers of spun moonlight.
Black cats of silken shadow's breath, conjured of nightingale song, came on silent paws. For they are drawn to the heart of magic that dwell's in these parts. They move in its flow as easily as the spring-wash carried fish.
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