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His grip upon the bow tightens and his gaze reaches outward to the distant hills, and he gasps at the sight of the angry fog that has settled over the mountain where ...... Rage claims him for a moment and it is a narrow thing to resist the impulse to snap the bow into pieces. His sight could not possibly penetrate so dense a gathering of stale and damp air and so he must look to the edges of the foggy shroud. What he sees chills him. The little life that is left upon the mountain has been desecrated in form and mind – even the plants have twisted in upon themselves. The realizations strike him like a storm. Somehow it followed the traces of my life to the mountain. Somehow it followed the power of her ritual to her – just like the arrow I made ..... The place where we first ...... “Nooooooooooooooo!” the scream erupts from his lungs and shakes the air around him and tears, the first plurality of tears since that day the Ruah ha’mot’tah** claimed his wife stream down his face.
**"Wind that is Death"
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