Sometime last evening, the riverside caves north of Outentown saw activity. A soft plume of smoke could be seen from dusk and then still into the early morning, and intermittently throughout the day, rising out of the cave mouth to dance strangely in the blue sky.
The man who brought it sparks a memory in the folk of Outentown, but nothing clear. Nothing named.
The man who brought it sparks a memory in the folk of Outentown, but nothing clear. Nothing named.
Those who look too closely and for too long may even swear they can make out figures in the twisting grey column.
Figures of birds, or bats, or something else. Wings circling, pivoting.
But there is only smoke, and few who can claim more than superstition as to what it means.