THE TOWN OF BRUMFALL
Towns like this never truly die. Their stories linger in the soil, waiting for someone to dig them up. Below are the entities recorded in the soil of Blake County: the ghosts, the guardians, and the invaders fighting for the soul of the harvest.
I break everything. The prodigal grandson returning to the soil he tried to leave behind. He trades textbooks for a crowbar to fix a farmhouse that holds the memory of a town. He thinks he is just passing through, but the land has other plans.
I am what comes after. A deity of decay hiding in the woods, tending to the rot that allows life to begin again. She prefers combat boots to sandals and guitars to lyres. She is the ancient cycle of the forest floor, wearing a leather jacket.
Look harder at the town. A walker of the backroads and the spaces between map creases. He appears where he is needed, usually with a walking stick and a riddle. He knows the ways of the Fold because he has walked them all.
MINING WILL NOT BE IMPEDED A hunger made of iron and steam. They do not want the land; they want the stories inside it. They are the cold, mechanical future coming to strip-mine the ghosts of the past.
I hear the grain screaming. Coiled in the darkness of the silos. She does not serve man; she serves the harvest. Cold-blooded, territorial, and older than the town itself, she ensures that nothing touches the grain without paying a price.
Your name is not in my ledger. The ghost of the town’s first laws, still presiding over a crumbling mansion. He does not care that he has been dead for over a century. He only cares about the law. He enforces the boundaries of the town with his decisions and his lightning.
I break everything. The prodigal grandson returning to the soil he tried to leave behind. He trades textbooks for a crowbar to fix a farmhouse that holds the memory of a town. He thinks he is just passing through, but the land has other plans.
I am what comes after. A deity of decay hiding in the woods, tending to the rot that allows life to begin again. She prefers combat boots to sandals and guitars to lyres. She is the ancient cycle of the forest floor, wearing a leather jacket.
Look harder at the town. A walker of the backroads and the spaces between map creases. He appears where he is needed, usually with a walking stick and a riddle. He knows the ways of the Fold because he has walked them all.
MINING WILL NOT BE IMPEDED A hunger made of iron and steam. They do not want the land; they want the stories inside it. They are the cold, mechanical future coming to strip-mine the ghosts of the past.
I hear the grain screaming. Coiled in the darkness of the silos. She does not serve man; she serves the harvest. Cold-blooded, territorial, and older than the town itself, she ensures that nothing touches the grain without paying a price.
Your name is not in my ledger. The ghost of the town’s first laws, still presiding over a crumbling mansion. He does not care that he has been dead for over a century. He only cares about the law. He enforces the boundaries of the town with his decisions and his lightning.