'Tis nearly Sahmain, my children, and the shadow of the long and lonely night is lengthening about us. The days grow ever shorter while the chill of winter slithers into the winds. Leaden skies mask the dawn stealing the color from the world. The leaves tumble away from the trees like lost souls leave only stark wooden skeletons behind.
There are lights in the windows. Pale stretches of light that fail just an arms length away from the panes swallowed by brooding night. The stars are lost in the scudding clouds. Rain splatters fitfully against the stoop, glistening weakly in the porch light. A pale crescent of moonlight struggles against the shroud, but has not the strength to carry through.
Stubble in the fields. The brown stumps left from the harvesting with only the bare earth left between the rows. Brown and black soils now darkened with the rain stain the chaff and mingle with the seed left behind. Crows cry as they move through the fields pecking at the remains.
And there, in the deeping dark, a light flickers into being. Yellow orange flare gutters and spits back at the mist laden fog, as triangle eyes and a crooked smile gloat at the creatures of the night. A candle born guardian against the wandering spirits of this wonderfully wicked day.