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Dozens of mounds erected to the dead: all slightly pointed, all silent under the low thick sky. The air still within this cul-de-sac of stone; the drab grass drifting only seldom in a sluggish breeze.
No howling voices today.
Yet still Mugg-Medias thought he felt the stifling, staring presence of the dead.
--Written by Alexander Saxton.
Support The Wrong Station by subscribing at www.patreon.com/thewrongstation.
The Wrong Station contains explicit content and mature themes. Episode-specific warnings can be found at www.wrongstation.com/c-w.
Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
4.7
595595 ratings
Dozens of mounds erected to the dead: all slightly pointed, all silent under the low thick sky. The air still within this cul-de-sac of stone; the drab grass drifting only seldom in a sluggish breeze.
No howling voices today.
Yet still Mugg-Medias thought he felt the stifling, staring presence of the dead.
--Written by Alexander Saxton.
Support The Wrong Station by subscribing at www.patreon.com/thewrongstation.
The Wrong Station contains explicit content and mature themes. Episode-specific warnings can be found at www.wrongstation.com/c-w.
Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices
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