Old Witch

Stooping in a rotting throne of dead oak, casting black thoughts to the stars, burning cold over the glacial wilderness, she reaches withered hands to the cold, eternal night, vast above the deep winter forest. We have spilled our lives an offering to old gods, this brooding vast land. Come, the funeralboats unfurl cruel sails to the north wind, seeking haven beyond the pillars of death.... ... more

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