Winter is here

  Late winter snow finally covered mound Kozlov Rob in white and the sun entered the sign of the Trout that walks. The mists crept the land as howls of hungry wolves who tarried not to approach the staggered farms of Tolminska outskirts.
  Black-robed man once again checked the compass Martha gave him. He was on the right place. He unveiled weathered ox-leather bundle and placed the sticks on green mossy rocks around him. A drop of Silver Tear or two, to make things easier, he knew, and his tired eyes watered, his vision blurred. Now trees like spiders crept away, the meadow shifted in color and was now in shade of velvet. The wind became humid and air was warm to breathe with a hint of dark purple.
  He stood up on his feet and turned his head. "I bring thee Grapes of Sorrow," said he. The creature said nothing, but gazed at him in daunting silence. Then they did a strangest thing, but what it was it matters not, for in a cave three moons away from here one ember altar stands. He who burns three braziers there plays on strings of space and time and life.

Peter Leban