Spring arrives late in Horsingdon. Always.
No one is entirely sure why this is the case - although the Folk of the Black Bowers claim to be in the possession of (especially) ancient texts, in which it is supposedly written that the wind hearabouts gibbers with the voices of Those Who Wait, and that the very soil of Horsingdon mutters with Their consciousness.
If these tales are true, perhaps the instantiation of such monstrous, praeternatural presences within the local topography speak to the reasons for the strange, temporal drag which afflict the region’s seasonal shifts.
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