The witches at the tavern dance all night, wasps in the head, claws rip out the intestines, thy womb of nature, milky flesh and raw honey, eyesight divine. The barkeep is an ageless and robust woman with a neck the size of a tree stump, I sit unmoved by a fireless fireplace, white and red brick walls and a tapestry depicting a feast of demons and a lecturing priest under a boiling, orange sun.
Their cloaked master arrives before the first horrible ray of sunlight and they kneel, I do not obey, I do not obey anyone, insolence and wine, everlasting delight, darksome blood, vicious bliss, hellish hate.