I write this entry from atop the Hanweir wall. I find it amusing and self-congratulatory that not only did my village secede from Videns Parish and Gavony, but we felt arrogant enough to name our (one-town) province of Hanweir. If we used a currency, would it be called the Hanweir? Are the individual streets to be renamed Hanweir? Am I Hanweir?
I have com to love and fear this wall. Concilwoman Blackwell, in her anger, seems to have been a bearer of overwhelming truths. By enclosing ourselves we have ensured that anything sealed with us behind the walls of Hanweir cannot get out. This truth became far too clear last night with the unfortunate discover that former popular pear farmer, Hadwin Dodd, was a lycanthrope. He was killed last night in front of his own house after a most disturbing public transformation and moonlight hunt. He died only after slaughtering two children in his lupine state.
Perhaps we, the makers of our cage, deserve this. We have sinned, and our punishment is raining in blood from the sky and tearing transformed flesh behind our doors.
I find myself praying to no one in particular. Avacyn and her vultures will certainly not help me. Instead I whisper desperate prayers to the void of the nightto the cold witch-hour, when only the moon can hear me. It feels pointless. Im not sure if the moon can do me much good.
Perhaps all I can do is turn to those around me.
Perhaps the only solution is to join with the rest of the sinners and wayward souls here in this hapless box we made.
Our salvation is not in the skies or in the hymns or in books. It is closeness with our neighbors, embracing each other and embracing our humanity.
As I write with my pen, the truth becomes manifest.
Coming together is the only option.
- Oliver Hayfield
Preserved Pears
Perhaps youll enjoy these more than I do. I cant stand the taste anymore.
- Oliver Hayfield
