Lurking through the misty morning hills ‘neath the shroud of branches.
Weary steps sink into the leaves as the dim sunlight dances through the veil
upon an ancient bridge, clasped in the grip of moss.
A stone laden body erupts from the soil.
Roused from its slumber, awake now, the troll,
swinging with the fury, tearing root from earth.
In frightened recoil from the stone splitting force,
the pilgrims all split into the tree line to flee.
Unto unknown paths led their fast anxious feet.
Lost in the onset of cold as the snow falls softly into the winter bleak,
where trees seem to murmur and speak

(Wanderer)
In my panic, I sought through the thick underbrush for signs of travel from my companion, fear growing with my fruitless search. But still, I wandered forth, unsure of what lie before me in this treacherous wood. Calling out into the calm air, I was met with the howling of the wind whistling through the leaves. I felt the brisk chill tighten its grip upon me. Without food or rest for what must have been hours, I felt as though I may fall and succumb to the cold. And suddenly the paranoia of what might have been my frigid death was enough to drive my exhausted body forward.
No longer calling out for reply, I came to a large clearing in the woods. The tall grasses covered in steel and blood from what must have been a great battle. At the heart of this glade was an ancient husked ash tree, with a great miasma of branches grasping eerily toward the heavens leading down to thick gnarled roots that held an iron cauldron in their tendrils.

To the brim of the cauldron, filled with a viscous black ichor.
His thirst grew too strong, he longed for its bitter nectar.
As he dipped in his hand to clasp forth a sip,
the fetid potion chilled when it crawled past his lips.

Vision grew dim, and his stomach began to churn
as he lapsed onto the cold soaking ground.
Until the lights had gone dim and he couldn’t bring himself to his feet,
He lay in the grass until the poison restrained him and forced him into sleep.

Waking at the mouth of an obsidian lake,
clinging to his wits and what sense he can make,
the pungent swamp air wafts up to his now throbbing head, reeking of carrion and untended death.
And now just above the tempestuous mire drifts the soft incandescence of dim candle fire.
The black waters lie still as flowers unbloomed
as he rises and walks toward his watery tomb.
Entranced by fair voices surrounding the lake
chanting a spell that his wit cannot break.

(Crones)
“Though our powers grow weak and frail we’ve become,
three sisters united by darkness are one.
And now, in our hour under moon, we arise
to snuff out all sunlight, so night may survive.
Hail to our lord of a thousand years night.
Hail be the darkness that drinks from the light.”

In a moment of strength, he then grasps for his blade
and swears to himself that these crones’ blood shall spill.
The weight of the sword then suddenly relieves
as the steel drips like wax onto the shores of the lake.
The sun seemed to choke from the foul ancient smell
as darkness arrived mightily upon the esoteric hymn of their spell.