A Wights Tale

He sat, slumped on his throne in a darkness that hadn’t been dark to him for more than twelve centuries. Wrapped in leather and bronze, tattered burial weeds over a golden crown placed upon his brow. His skin like dry un-cured leather, wrinkled and stretched. Lips drawn back in a dessicated grimace over black rotted teeth and wide dark cavities where once-bright eyes had sat. Surrounded by grave-goods and worshipped by generations of the superstitious Goblin people of the barrow. Tiny, long-nosed Boggarts that crept out and stole dreams in the night. Curdling milk and causing miscarriages with their evil whispers. Dancing on the roofs and switching babies for dolls made of sticks.
He rose from his seat, sloughing dust and sighing out his orders in a voice like the wind over dry reed-beds.
“Bring me the one,” He breathed, “find them and bring them.”
His order decreed, he drifted across the chamber to brush his dreadful cadaverous hand across the book of foul witchery that twitched upon its bony lectern.

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