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And what might be spooking him...
Fog cringes in the valleys, leaving moonlit ridges to rear like bleached bones of long-slain worrums; spines without flesh, barren and dead.
A chill breeze rattles the husks of dry leaves, their sussuration an echo of the old woman's whisper as she tosses the bones. What say them? Come, young man...
Aragorn pulls his cloak tighter. She beckons him as he passes her drear cottage, the crone with her dwimmer-cast secrets. But he needs no witch to offer hope for a coin. Hope’s fire burns always within him.
He sets his jaw, and continues his lonely journey south.
(My first attempt at writing spooky atmospheric stuff, tucked in my Sons of Forgotten Kings collection over at SoA.)
Go easy on the candy, y'all!
(On second thought, screw that... eat it all!!!!)
