Fiction of Painters and Poets

As the still clouded night drew to the sunless hours of morning a cold breeze picked up from a woodland in a valley far south. This breeze cut like a blade across the hills and mountains followed close behind by the cold light of a late autumn sun, carrying with it the smell of pine and the touch of mountain snow. This breeze grew in speed through the hills and fields from wind to gale, its path preceded by a procession of crows fleeing from its grasp. The wind flew down into a bowl like valley town with a howl like that of a hell hound bearing down on its prey, ripping limbs from trees and flesh from houses.