The hovel of a home, hung with birds, rabbits and herbs from its cracked plaster ceiling. Baskets, boxes and bottles, the contents were familiar to her, their uses being to season, to heal, to harm. The fire never seemed to die down in the hearth, its bright flames causing the shadows of dead fowl, small skulls and trinkets to cast long shadows upon the wall. A garden spider, no bigger than the thumb became a shadow to haunt the dreams, but it bought her peace. Home.
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hornwort
