It is not uncommon, during a casual stroll through Horsingdon Woods, to discover the remnants - or the beginnings - of some ritual edifice: sympathetic magic bound in stick, briar and stone, and intended to reshape the unseen topographies and the intangible, procrustean geometries which form both the metaphysical bedrock of the region, and the barrier separating this world from those chaotic, prenumbral realms which lurk beyond.
It is fortunate that ramblers typically encounter such artefacts after dawn and before twilight, for that is when they are at their safest; even then it is best not to interfere with them; better still to avoid such sites altogether - especially after dark, for then one risks confronting the authors of these structures or - worse still - whatever unnameable presences those architects of the unreal seek to draw forth from the formless dark.
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