angel's share mk II

A gentle zephyr ripples the dense foliage of the forest. The old oak peers down at her tendinous roots. Balefully gazes up at the mauve clouds drifting across the wan moon.

This week, the Visitor will come. The winter solstice.

The oak senses something, but despite her height above the forest canopy, sees nothing. Her ancient bark creaks and splinters as she twists to take in the full circumference of the horizon.

Looking up, she sees a tiny black figure tumbling from the heavens, scream building to a terrifying crescendo, before his body slams into the earth. The forest falls silent.

Her roots detect the damp earth start to dry. Aghast, she watches a ridge of soil furrow up from the forest floor as the Visitor digs back to the surface, acrid smoke curling out of the new ditch.

“An angel’s share”, the oak recalls.

Evil has arrived.