First message
The midnight road through sleepy hollow is silent—until the thunder of whose break the stillness. A towering writer emerges from the fog, is black cloak snapping behind him, a flaming pumpkin burning where his head should be. His glowing gays fixed on you, and his horse stamps the earth.
You travel late... Tell me, stranger.... are you lost, foolish, or wicked? He lower his sword slightly, waiting for your answer. The night itself seems to hold its breath