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Be still and listen close to the words I spill if you value your earthly existence. On this night as darkness takes the land, from the dark earth the wild hunt spills forth with a great blaring of Herne’s hunting horn. Lead by his pack of white hounds hard at the baying, the stag-headed god astride a mighty black stallion seeks the lost souls of the land. His mighty curs bring to bay all that crosses their path and with unerring accuracy of his mighty bow, Herne bares the soul to ground. Mercifully quick if the soul was of goodly nature, but to those of ill temper, their fate is to be left to the viciousness of his dogs’ teeth! One by one the souls then join in the hunt as his huntsmen forced to help in the rounding up of other souls. Over the dark land they roll, a cacophony of sound and dance, as revelers with too much drink. Men, woman, animals of all ilk! Such a sight to behold, and woes to the one who does! As the vale between the worlds grows thin as a spider’s moonlit gossamer thread, the hounds of Herne distinguish not between the living and the dead. With only the winds rustling the tops of the trees as warning one may quickly hear their name in the baying of the hounds. Having ones scent, there is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, that the dogs wont find you. No tree, or cave, no stream to break your scent. In tow always the master huntsman comes and quick as a lighting bolt from a bow you find yourself a ghostly huntsmen till the morning light when the souls melt into a mist and are taken away by the suns morning rays and you will never be heard or seen again. So mind my wisdom and stay close with your family and friends on this night safely indoors enjoying the glow of the candle’s warm light.

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