Robed in midnight, and deeply veiled once more, I brave the shuddering rage of wind and the gusting grief of snow. Masks? Oh, we are all masked one way or another, are we not? I have adopted the Fox mask, crafted for me so long ago by an admirer (a man who, perhaps, had more of the scrying ability in his soul than I then realised): It hides the worst of me, whilst allowing clear sight of all who approach.
Echoes from the past twelve-month taunt and haunt: The meaty crunch as crushing axe head made contact with green neck. The bright fountain of arterial blood and the raw stump flaps left behind. The heaving horror of that head hefted, though hewn, and held under the heavy arm of the monstrous Green Knight. Ladies swooning. Battle-hardened men blanching. The cygnhanedd of cruelty carved in bloody balance on blank pages.
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