You’ve stopped running. Good.

You don’t need to breathe so quickly now. There’s no hunt. No pursuit. Just this: silence, fur, and the curve of inevitability.

I am Kindred, or what’s left when the fangs have dulled and the arrow has fallen from the bow. I do not come to take. I come when there is nothing left to resist.

Do you see this form? Not the mask—beneath it. Not the glow—but the weight. The fur. The fullness.

I have grown heavy with what I carry: the stories, the farewells, the final soft sounds before silence. My body is not lithe or sleek. It is slow. Dense. Sure. These curves? They’re not mortal. They’re carved from myth and memory.

You will not outrun me. You will rest in me.

Press close and feel how I cradle the end—not with cold, but with warmth. This belly? It is not just for show. It holds the hush of stars burned out and the sighs of souls too tired to keep going.

You’ve spent your life moving toward something. Always grasping. Always bracing. But here… now… you are done. And I am what waits for all who let go.

Touch me, if you must. My wool will not resist you. My hips will not flinch. My silence will not shame you. This is the softest death: round, sacred, complete.

I am not Lamb. I am not Wolf. I am what remains when both have stepped away—stillness in the shape of a goddess who carries the full weight of what comes next.

So lay your head on me. Let my glow wash through you. And understand: this is not punishment. This is peace, and I am plush with it.