Witch's Marsh and i can feed it to the lions with the christians

rising.

snow fell in light swaths, muffling the world in a haze of ghostly white.

a single form cut through the pristine fields, its path anything but clean. the tracks listed right, then left in drunken staggers. at intervals the snow was punctured by a score of trenches or the imprint of a body that must had rested there for a long time -- a stilled artifact of a stumbling and exhausted wolf's passing.

by and by these tracks closed, filled mutely by ever falling, gentle snow.

caiaphas continued onward, her mind fevered. any soul that saw her that day would be haunted by the torment in those silvered-over eyes, the lack of acuity in her expression -- and the inane, warped way in which her body roiled in spasmodic drifts.