Trees.
Always so many trees.
No matter where in the forest one turned, the trees would reach far above, they would creep behind and mislead and misguide you and you must not listen to the trees. The wind whispered secrets among their branches, trusted tales from eons past and they would twist the words like each twist in their branches, play with sentences along their knots and bark. They were always such mischievous fellows, the trees.
The Witching Hour is not a when, but a where.
And the trees in The Witching Hour would always guide you straight to her. Their dishonest path always meant that you would lose your hope, lose your way, lose your faith, and a deal with the demon herself didn’t seem so bad by the end of the journey.
“I’m going to need you to sit tight for just a moment. The more you cooperate, the easier this will be. I want to make it very clear–I won’t kill you. If you’re good, I’ll hardly even hurt you. Not unless you resist.”
Do you approach the fae?
