the evil eye has done its work;

The lovely scent of ash and smoke followed Mordreaux as he rode through the woods.

It was only fitting, wasn't it? Autumn simply called for a good fire to keep away the turning chill along with a story to go with it. And oh, his prior company had more than performed. She'd been a firebird caught in a terrible iron cage, and he simply helped her melt the bars with a little bit of coaxing. Seeing her fly free was glorious, and if a few people were caught in the blaze, well....no autumn story is complete without a drop of blood and a few charred bones to toss into the fire. She'd rise and be all the stronger for it, and thank him one day for the assistance.

But now that he was alone and held all the time in the world for his own company, his thoughts turned to darker stories he'd both heard and lived through, tales befitting the turning autumn leaves. Headless horsemen and skeleton keys taken from living bone. Barrels driven with nails to house wicked tricksters down the river, shirts woven from nettle thorns. Old tales his mother used to tell of the Sidhe with their tricksome rules meant to steal you away, her whispered stories lingering at his cheek when the centuries had stolen away her features. It was entertaining, in a morbid way. It passed the time at least.

A bitter chill ran through the woods at his back, making him shiver and pull his cloak a little closer. The leaves rustled from behind him, running all along the road as if invisible sprites were in a hurry, spinning the leaves in little dances here and there, bringing a faint smile to his lips. He would've thought nothing of it until his mare Gwynned huffed through her nostrils, tossing her head to the side. Mordreaux let her slow from an easy trot to a walk as he peered at what had caught her attention through the brush, in no hurry to leave the woods and all the thoughts it brought to mind.

An old, dilapidated shrine to one of this country's gods lay hidden in an overgrown tangle of bramble and shrubbery. He didn't recognize the symbol fallen apart at the altar, and the oddly placed pile of sticks at its base drew his curiosity, but before he could dwell on it too long, he was met with sounds that he was far from alone on the forest road.

He stopped and listened beyond the rising howling wind. Harried footsteps, breaking branches, and the faintest sound of a voice through the trees.

His sword was pulled from his scabbard in a heartbeat, and he clicked his tongue for Gwynned to turn and follow whoever was lost in the woods.

And as he left, he didn't notice how the altar was swallowed into the bramble, nor how the pile of sticks shuddered to life behind him. All he chased after was what lay at the end of the road.