I grasp you, as Ceres grasped your body and pulled it from the Earth; I cut you as the shaft of wheat held by the Virgin’s hand.

Holy and golden herb, hair of Na’a, progeny of Naapi, be thou with me in my acts of devotion and sorcery.

By the blood in my veins and the blood of this Land, by those of my kin and those familiar to me.

I call out to the Grim - "Take me to the Dogwood! I seek the help of my blood!" - and the figure of a dog seems to run past me. Still lost, I follow its path and swiftly find myself beneath the boughs of my ally. I trace the circumference of its reach with my Black Knife before plunging the blade into the earth. With my bare hands I dig a small hole beneath a large root and place my box within it. As I call to my ancestors of blood, of land and of craft, the hole is covered. I break bread, leaving the pieces of which at each cardinal direction and atop the box itself. I soak the earth in wine, honey and water. The air shifts, suddenly cold and heavy, and I feel dozens of pairs of eyes on my person. Have I attracted the attention of my kin?