A chill spread throughout the Glade.
Roiling and coiling, a dank mist swarmed over the ground, covering root and burrow, tunnel and hole, making the terrain treacherous.
A dark wind whipped the flames of the bonfire, broadcasting sparks among cloak and gown and tunic.
The trees began to twist and lean; their branches snapped, switching air and ground. Moaning, they rose, all of one accord, and marched towards the guests.
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I’ll sing his roots off. I’ll sing a wind up and blow leaf and branch away.
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