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 ^{(it's beta!)}

In the midst of the grassy meadows of Albion stands the great oak. The old raven tree. Its trunk is dark, gnarled and bent with age, scarred by storms and the passage of time. Under the eves and up high upon the boughs perch the ravens which give the old oak it’s name. The children of the villages and homesteads for miles around attend on the ancient tree, hanging small charms of paper and metal from the lower branches and leaving bowls with offerings of dried horse meat amongst the great twisted mass of roots at its base. The gentle clinking of chimes makes a stark contrast to the raucous croaking of the ravens echoing down from on high in the branches.

It is on a greying day of autumn when the children of Aronshire are sent to tend upon the oak. As the last of the leaves fade in colour and fall from their boughs and the dragons breath becomes of the villagers, they send the next generation. Those who are coming of age in the fall season, led by the eldest, prepare their charms and offerings and make their way across the old forest to the meadow and the waiting tree. The eldest this year is a girl named Sandy. Freckle faced and straw haired she leads the small troupe of scampering youths into the mist wreathed and frosted undergrowth of the old forest.

Days pass. The families of the village begin to fear. No child of the group has been seen in near on a week now. As winter tightens its grip on the earth the village elders are forced to hold a council. A search party of fathers and brothers is sent out to comb the forest and meadow for any sign of the missing children. It is Dane, brother of Sandy, who finds the string of coloured glass beads that was her favourite necklace. It lay in a dell a few feet from the path, as if tossed by an uncaring hand. Of the troupes whereabouts the villagers discover no clues in the old forest. This all changes when they reach the old raven tree.

In the dark trunk, a hollow revealed a crude door, apparently hacked from the tree itself. Above the portal, in an already fading crimson scrawl, was a name.

“Shechem” whispered Dane. His breath crystallising into the purple air of a winters twilight.