His unruly mop of hair ran down the nape of his neck in ringlets, with a couple of curls poking out on top. His fulsome beard was another mass of curl... down his front. His eyes were huge and liquid, but oddly – dead.He had, as many of the club members had said over the years, enormous charisma. Sexual magnetism seemed to roll off him in waves, like mist off of dry ice. He was the club, and everyone there knew it. And they worshipped him.He looked the first young woman deeply in the eyes, then. I carefully lifted the crushed creature up by a couple of limbs so he could see it clearly and he took a step back with a gasp."A Soul Reaper," the old hunter said, his eyes showing fear. "Sarva the Shaman is a legend well known to the people of the Great Marsh." Tassim, what are you talking about?" I responded.Sparrow stood next to me, wide-eyed as the woman returned, removing the muddy backpack, and then covered the dead concubine's body with a wool blanket. "Finally, I don't have to look at. More

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