The nights are heavy, the sun is frail. The mountain moans its hunger. The rivers are frozen scars and the trees are become hard flashes of black lightning. Bells haunt the wind and peculiar bearded men appear in the fireplaces, to be chased away with pies and brandy. The roses, strangely, are in bloom.
Put on your slippers. Stoke the embers. Pull up a chair. It is time to remember. It is time to renew. It is time to succumb to a growing addiction. It is time… to play Skeal.
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