An old woman huddles in a yurt near the modest stove. Wafting notes of her herbal tea lilt through the air to stain the morning dew. She pauses a moment, as though listening, and smiles as she raises the cup to her withered lip. Outside, the gusts of a stormfront sweep the dried leaves of fall and rattle the black bones of the trees which scratch upward like fingers clawing at the grey precipice of a chill sky.
A visitor is coming. And her children are Night’s own.