Aria lifts her nose, and the whole world simultaneously expands and distills. A drama unfurls before her. Scents rise and swirl, bullied around by a light breeze. Some hover like small clouds above stones. There are the tentacled and tailed. A few sing. Some are like small poems. Many are ephemeral, quick as a cough. There are those that snarl, some snicker. Animal spoors trail with confidence like the smoke of a cigar. Some frolic like a dragonfly drizzling itself across a blue summer sky. Others haunt fallen leaves. They are bright and alive, these auras. They speak of sagas. Of sex. Birth.
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