Though I walk now among the Thin Branches, drawing near to the Shadow That Roars, I shall not fear, for You, Lord, are with me. Be thou a tail to my soul, O Gatherer, who caches the hoard that never empties. I scent the hot and sticky sweetness of the Shadow, baking black and yellow beneath the heat of the sun. The bones of my brothers lie at the edges. One sad corpse lies, headless and disfigured, upon the yellow lines.
The air chokes me. The surface is hot beneath my feet. I must cross now.
O Gatherer! Preserve me!
The Shoveller Of Widdecombe Ditch (Trad.)
13 hours ago