When Lady Reality's dogs bark, feline instincts flare. Their hoary voices drown the morning's sleep-touched peace; their pitch casts a spell of depressed duty on the ears they disturb. Why can't Lady Reality keep her dogs quiet and well-mannered? Is that so much to hope for? They bark at the worst of times, and when I leave the house they stalk my shadow, growling and guttural. I try and keep casual, but my adrenaline soars, and my fear ignites. For I have heard that the ill-tempered, uncollared brutes will tear out a man's throat with their clamping jaws and yellow, razor teeth. Don't arouse their hackles. Docility is what the situation calls for. Docility before dogs.
It is true that Lady Reality's dogs have me cowering. I am afraid of their drive. I am haunted by their hunt. I am terrified by the things they have done to humanity, and the things they will timelessly do until the timeline's end with such simple and ferocious detachment.
I now find myself covering my scent and ducking into dark alleys whenever I spy the four legged demons in the distance. They tasted my flesh once; they must not taste it again. But I know that they are in a frenzy, and I can only dodge them for so long before they find me. For bloodlust now drives these savage creatures; their eyes are glossed by it. In hiding I hear the Lady, their master, chuckling at my fear.
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