My skin is whiter than the last patch of snow in a mountain pass. My hair is blacker than the dreamless sleep behind your eyes. My lips are berry liquor – bright blood of the dying year. Men have called me Phantom, Battle-Strife, Nightmare. I am the Great Queen, stepping in from beyond, taunting you in the reeds, in the crags, in the unstitched nothing between the stars. One fix of my emerald stare will send you mad. Drums will be in your ears and the wail of war pipes. I am Morrigan.
