1 October 2012
Mist swirls around my ankles, silver fingers curling in tight as the night closes in. Knurled old oak trees stand naked and dark against the navy sky. Their silent slumber only broken by the creaking of their ancient limbs in the wind.
The howls are deep and throaty in the twilight gloom. I raise my face to the starless sky, feeling a longing in my gut for the moon. The longing - the urge - takes control and my mouth joins the howl.
It is coming.
It Begins • Opuss № I