A fel wind is blowing. Spirits rise from their graves, and practicioners of the Dark Arts feel their power waxing. The moon itself hides her face, in shame at the horrors that play out below. For this is All Hallow's Eve (over here at least)
, and mighty Czernabog arises from his prison of stone.
Tonight, of all nights, he is without peer. He is darkness made real, the eldritch shriek in the night, the shadow in the forest, the fear that lurks behind every man's head. And the land itself shall tremble under his shadow, and the dead shall dance and sing his praises. Let Men hide in their fragile houses, clutching their weapons in feeble hope; let the dogs whine and howl, for they remember the savagery of the wild forces.
Czernabog has risen, and so Terror rides with him!
Cower, Men, in your houses of matchsticks! Tremble, mortals, who would presume to keep away the night! Huddle with your little loved ones, and hide your faces lest you attract his mighty and terrible gaze!
Bow before your master made flesh, oh witches and sorcerers! Praise and glorify him, that he might spare you on this night of wrath!
Czernabog has awoken, and if few dare look at him, NONE MAY STAND AGAINST HIM!
, mine would win.