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THE MOUNTAIN
Beneath the gray fog the hungry Wind writhes, its movement touching every exposed surface upon the hilltop and pulling even the currents of the surrounding air into its desecrating embrace.
Soon, O yes, quite soon we shall meet, this outsider woman and I. And such a meeting it shall be! O yes! ..... Ah! But for now I shall simply have to be content with those wonderful syllables of her new name .... Such a glorious imagination he has to name her so boldly – the fool! The splendid fool! ..... And here – here in this place ..... O! This is too delightfully foolish to be true! But it has been done and willingly! ..... Seh’rul, Seh’rul, you are now truly scattered. Yes, no longer simply Exiled, you are now outsider ..... O! Your beautiful defiance, your mad freedom – soon you will be broken and I will be free of you and free to feast as I have never feasted before.
Settling low along the site of the rituals the Dead Air grows thick and caustic, burning even the stone with its touch. Something like laughter floats lazily through the fog and the muted rumble of strangled thunder dully sounds across the hilltop. And in dark places where the air does not move, things begin to stir.
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