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The clouds lean over. The village is awake and its daughter the witch the only one outdoors. The snowstorm blows as if to tear and break and throw apart this season of ritual, so none of our sigils are any use except for one, a waterproof, black, flint rune her brother got her at the camping gear shop. | |
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The terrible River and Trickster God! The caravan broken and wheels burning in a bonfire, and the pipes and weapons all broken or stolen away! |
Who can name the season when autumn sashays away, and in swings this frosty monarch, all lanterns cooing, intimidated into wordlessness, and she wipes her greasy hands on you, fingernails painted as smooth and white as stones? |