Brambles reach their fingers to snag your muddied skirts along the fox-gloved path.
With its mortar made of marrow and bricks made of dreams, the cottage of bones beckons.
It whispers in the light of day and screams in the night...calling promises to broken dreamers.
The witch that tends the woods watches and waits.
Should the day come when you must call on her, guard your heart and hair lest she weave them into the thatch.
For wishes and dreams carry a cost, and the witch demands her payment.
But, beware the auld gods with gnashing teeth and bloody lips who also watch and wait, trapped in the wood beyond the witch.
The taste of your longing whets their appetite, and your fear is a perfume they dab on their hungry throats.