A murky sky of a new moon filed with awkward lumbering black wings. Far off, in another world, the dying ring of the witching hour fades, the notes slowly falling like rain. A putrid stench of rendered lard, and herb, and poison anoint the eye that now scans the hedge below, seeking a door into the world within the world. The twisting, ever-changing, crooked path traveled...
...as the witch flies.
asthewitchflies
