Marky pounds out the calligraphy as the sand trickles with a hush through the carved labyrinth at the feet of an ancient god. Next to him the brothers explode invisibly with sonic intent, and you will see, shaking on the altar, bone beneath skin beneath skin. "Who," they scream, "who runs with the swarm of beasts?" And you would answer, could your lips decipher your mind's ancient name. So you continue to run, the rats and the black racers swiftly avoiding your footfalls on the cold, worn stone. On your left pads a great cat, and to your right all five senses sense hooves and muscle and heat. "Where," come the screams from above, "where do you run?" And this you know. For what better way to carve a sacred circle than by the sweat of all creatures who dwell within it?