Girl, mortal, it was a lifetime ago. The barrows are cold now, as are her bones. She holds her heart in the hollow of a tree; it is long overgrown. She does not recognize the mask in the mirror, the creature with glowing eyes and sharp browns and hair crowned with antlers.
When they meet her and her horde at the crossroads they ask: Are you the one who rides in the autumn nights? Are you the one for who the hounds and horns howl?
She says: I am the hunt and the hunt is me.
She says: ride with me. It is not a request.

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