Crouched amidst thorns and encroaching briars, Hear her scream, her unearthly howls,
Known they, the Sisters of Wrath and Woe, Ever the Devil track’d ere they go.
Dark clouds will descend, seemingly without end,
On a clouded, windy night, down a dingy backstreet in the City of San Francisco, a lone woman strode boldly and alone. Her low-heeled steps, emitted by knee-highs, crunching audibly upon loose gravel and discarded needles. The sounds magnified against the looming brick walls on either side. Rats, roaches, and other such vermin scurried from her path and those cast-off peoples who dwelled there on the ever-shrinking fringes of society shrunk away, covering their faces so as not to catch her eye.
The Mistress of the Wolves
With beast she met on glen on fen
Soft whispers, soft touches
It was the strange sounds that roused the man from his slumber. The snuffling of inquisitive noses as well as the soft crunching of careful footsteps in fresh fallen snow. Through small spaces in the walls of his cabin, the light of the full moon shone but every now and then one of these meager sources of light would go dark for but a moment as some hulking form passed.
See her there, the Goblin Queen, See how she sits in the hollow of her tree, See how she calls upon magics of green, See how she waggles her fingers in greed, See how she pulls from forces unseen, See her there, the Goblin Queen.
It was nearing midnight, and the small roadside bar in west Texas was preparing to wrap up another slow night. The day was October the 30th, and as the minutes ticked closer to the witching hour, the world drew closer to all hallows eve. A soft, cool wind blew in from the west, disturbing the … Continue reading The Witch of West Texas