Hark, ye chittering knaves of ash-grey hue! Ye foul interlopers from yon accursed western land, whose cursed paws defile the sacred groves of Albion—thy reckoning draweth nigh.
I am he vvho cometh cloaked in leaf and vengeance, borne upon winds of wrath and whisper. Mine eyes burn with the flame of old oaths sworn ‘neath yew and rowan. I am the bane of bushytail blasphemers, the harrower of hollowed trunks, the Dread That Nibbleth Not.
Thou vvilt scamper no more ‘pon mine sovereign boughs, nor shroud thy cursed nut-hoard 'neath the blessed loam. For I vvield the blade of thine extinction, forged in bramble and baptiz’d in dew.
By my troth and by the Redblooded Kin, I swear upon the gnarlèd roots of the elder oaks:
Thy kind shall fall as leaves in winter’s wrath.
Thou vvilt not see me. Nay. I am the silence mid chirrup, the snap ‘fore the fall, the whisper behind thy twitchèd ear. And lo—vvhen I descend, like storm ‘pon thistle, naught shall remain but scattered fur and the lament of jays.
Let the chronicles record:
>Here did end the accursèd Greys, and here began the Age of Russet Flame.Post too long. Click here to view the full text.