A Song of Oak and Holly
Odhran bared his teeth. “The days will not lengthen. The nights will not shorten. Winter will not recede.”
The ocean wind whipped at the long, gray beards of the two hooded druids as they ascended the rocky rise; their brown woolen robes tight around them, a bulwark against the cold late December air. Each man clutched a long wooden staff, one of oak and one of black Thornwood, decorated with ornate carvings of ancient markings.
The full…
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