A silver globe hangs in a silent sky. There is no cloud seen, save far, far to the west above the distant mountain ranges. There is no sound, save the soft murmur of the stream and the spooky tones of the wise oaks and willows as they watch The Figure pass. A figure in darkness, wrapped in it as though it were a cloak, a figure of the night shrouded in mystery. Shadows pool and shift and glide, lapping against the great sea of other shadows, exposed by the cool gaze of the contemptuous moon. Great strength is found in The Figure - it shoulders aside a hardy young sapling with vicious ease. And yet there is no sound made by The Figure.

The Figure has no distinct shape. It bears resemblence, when almost-viewed at best, to thy equine variety, swift and true as an arrow, gliding ghostlike through the heart of the wood. This mysterious Figure yields none of its secrets, save that of its outline, etched indistinct, black against bottomless black. A swift chill passes in its wake, rippling in the air about it as if a tangible thing like its master - or mistress. An still, there is only Presence...

Oddly, perhaps, it is not a malevolent presence. It means no harm, and will heed no-one. It is merely passing by...a whisper on the breeze, a lingering half-heard song of what might have been torn away from grasping hands...a soft lament, wept into the secrecy and comfort of the all-embracing night...

let us call thee... - ..w..ï..†..c..h..