Clusters of crucifixes stuck out against the fresh green foliage of spring, thankfully they were empty. This wouldn't last - it rarely did around here. There was always something to be caught and strung up in appeasement of the faceless, nameless god who'd been influencing the county for a decade or so.
Last month it was nothing but deer - antlers torn fresh from the kill and bound to the wood with fur until the oak was stained so red that no storm would ever wash it clean. Apparently this meant something, some great omen for the rest of the year culminating in a bountiful harvest and long lives for all.
The season before it was birds of all kinds and to this day I'm still finding stray feathers stuck to the walls with dried viscera - I don't care to find out exactly what. I just scrub the walls and wait to find more as soon as I turn around. There always seems to be something I've missed.
Still, it's not as bad as the first season. The first season demanded us to give over our own as the god had given his own. I'll never forget just how quickly our friends and neighbours turned against us, running away with clumps of bloody hair and flesh torn fresh and all nailed to the crucifixes to bring the sun back.
That summer was the most glorious of them all.
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