It is the fall-time, when the air is crisp and cold and smells of apples. When the leaves riot a glorious red and fall from the trees in bloody showers. When the wind begins to grow teeth.
It is the fall-time, when creatures roam the woods and the border between this world and the others grows thin. At this pivot point, this delicate border between the wild celebration of life that is Summer and the quiet contemplation of death that is Winter, the Shadows creep their fingers through the cracks.
It is the fall-time, when we celebrate a bountiful harvest, when we eat and drink and make merry, but must be mindful, lest the Others grow jealous.
It is the fall-time, when we light candles in the windows to light our way home, and keep away the monsters; when we huddle around the fire and tell tales to let them in.
It is the fall-time, beautiful and dangerous. Autumn is the warm embrace of the embers and the cold bite of the ashes; the caress of a stroke and the sting of a slap. She is sacred and profane, the time when anything is and anything can be.
Revel in her. But have a care, for we do not walk these Autumn woods alone.