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The following podcast may not be
for all listeners. 

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Listener discretion is advised. 
In the darkest depths of winter,

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when nights stretched endless 
and hungry, some cultures didn't

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celebrate. 
They survived. 

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In this episode, we're peeling 
back the cheerful veneer of 

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Christmas to reveal something 
far older and darker. 

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Before twinkling lights in 
shopping malls, before Santa 

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wore his red suit and TV 
commercials, there was Yule, a 

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12 day feast born in the blood 
soaked snow of the Norse 

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kingdoms. 
While we hang stockings by our 

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fireplaces, the Vikings hang 
offerings from sacred trees. 

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While we leave cookies for 
Santa, they left offerings for 

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Odin, the one eyed wanderer who 
led the wild hunt through the 

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black skies. 
Our modern Christmas, with its 

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carefully wrapped presents and 
sugar coated carols, is a thin 

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frost over ancient ice. 
In this episode, we will 

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discover why the Vikings 
trembled at the sound of hooves 

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on their roof, why they feared 
what lurked in the longest night

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of the year, and how their 
rituals to survive winter's 

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wrath became the traditions we 
know today. 

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Wear yourself something warm, 
dear listeners. 

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Draw close to your fires and 
remember sometimes the best 

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stories are the ones we've 
forgotten. 

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Winter lurks like a patient 
predator in the deepest shadows 

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of the year. 1st the cold creeps
in and then the weeks of bitter 

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winds and frostbitten mornings 
pass before winter is declared. 

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It is genuinely declared winter 
when the Earth's poles reach 

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their furthest tilt from the 
sun's warm embrace. 

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We call this the Winter 
Solstice. 

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It's the longest night when 
darkness reigns supreme and 

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sunlight becomes a fleeting 
memory as we experience the 

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shortest day. 
On this day, shadows stretch 

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their ghostly fingers across the
land and the night wraps its 

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cold arms around us. 
In our northern hemisphere, this

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dark day falls on December 21st 
or 22nd when the world holds its

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breath in the grip of midwinter.
But we are digging deeper into 

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humanity's oldest stories, back 
to the frost covered lands of 

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the Norse. 
You'll find they called it 

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something else. 
Yule, a name whispered around 

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dying fires when the night 
seemed endless. 

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Vikings were a specific group of
Norsemen who believed in Odin, 

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their God and father of all 
gods. 

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In the depths of winter, when 
shadows grew long and the winds 

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howled like wolves, the Vikings 
waited not for battle or glory, 

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but for the 12 Knights of Yule. 
When the veil between worlds 

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grew thin. 
During these dark nights, they 

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whispered tales of Odin, the one
eyed All Father who rode through

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the storm black skies on his 
wild hunt. 

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Children of these fierce Norse 
warriors crept to their hearths 

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as darkness fell, placing their 
shoes besides the dying embers. 

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Into these shoes they dropped 
sweet sugar for the All Father 

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and fresh hay for his 
otherworldly steed, a monster of

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a horse with eight legs, born of
Loki's trickery. 

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The offerings weren't merely 
gifts, they were protection, a 

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way to Curry favor with a God 
who could be as cruel as he was 

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wise. 
As little ones slept, even the 

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most hardened Vikings would cast
nervous glances at the chimneys.

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Were they new? 
On these nights, the sound of 

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hooves on their roofs might not 
be mere imagination, and the 

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shadows moving across their 
walls might belong to the 

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Wanderer himself. 
For 12 nights, as Yule unfolds 

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it's cold embrace, Odin leads 
his damned procession across the

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storm swept Nordic skies. 
Traditionally called the Wild 

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Hunt, it's a ghostly parade of 
the dead, a writhing mass of 

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spirits and souls trailing 
behind the All Father like a 

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cloak of mist and shadow. 
The Vikings knew these nights 

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well. 
Each day they would feast and 

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drink deep from their horns, not
just in celebration, but perhaps

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to steel themselves against what
the night would bring. 

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Their great hulls would buzz 
with the warmth of Mead and 

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tails. 
Yet beneath the laughter lay an 

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edge of unease. 
From the day after the winter 

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solstice, when the world hangs 
in perfect darkness, the 12 days

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of Yule March forward like 
spectral footsteps in the snow. 

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Each feast raised a cup and 
roaring fire serves a dual 

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purpose to celebrate life's 
persistence in the dark months 

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and to ward off the attention of
those who ride with Odin in his 

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nightly parade. 
Odin's Wild Hunt was more than 

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mere spectacle. 
It was a brutal demonstration of

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raw, primordial power. 
The All Father, Ruler of the 

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Underworld and Master of nine 
Realms, would tear through the 

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fabric of reality itself, 
leading his phantom host through

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dimensions mortals could 
scarcely comprehend. 

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No realm was beyond his reach, 
from the icy wastes to the 

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burning plains, from the root 
depths of the golden halls of 

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Asgard. 
Vikings believed viewing this 

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ghostly parade to be a bad omen.
Deep in the frozen Norse 

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winters, the 12 days of Yule 
were marked by rituals that 

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danced between celebration and 
superstition, between honoring 

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the gods and warding off the 
darkness. 

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An Evergreen tree, defiant 
against winter's death, was 

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decorated and surrounded with 
offerings. 

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Carved figures of the gods were 
placed beneath its branches, 

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while precious food and clothing
hung like prayers frozen in 

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time, each item a whispered plea
to the powers that ruled their 

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world. 
As darkness claimed each night 

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the Yule logs flames would paint
shadows on the walls. 

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Its ancient oak were ashwood, 
cracking with forest secrets. 

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But this was no ordinary fire. 
Its remnants held power long 

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after the flames died. 
The charred remains would be 

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dragged with purpose beneath 
sleeping beds, a smouldering 

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ward against evil, a blackened 
Talisman of protection. 

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Yet another spirit stalked these
sacred nights, the Yule goat, an

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invisible presence that echoed 
Thor's mighty goats, which 

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pulled the Thunder God's chariot
through the storm racked skies. 

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This phantom goat prowled 
between worlds, unseen but felt 

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in every cold draft an 
unexplained creak of timber. 

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The Vikings left honourings for 
this spectral visitor, knowing 

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it walked in the hoof prints of 
Thor's divine beasts beneath the

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light of the winter stars. 
These traditions wove together 

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like threads in a tapestry of 
belief. 

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Each ritual, each decorated 
branch, and each preserved log 

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served as anchor points against 
the chaos of the dark season. 

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While Odin's procession of the 
dead howled across 9 realms and 

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Thor's Thunder echoed in the 
distance, the Vikings held their

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ground with these sacred rites. 
During Yule, when frost etched 

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shapes on window panes and 
darkness pressed close like a 

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living thing, the Vikings 
believed the barrier between 

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life and death was as thin as 
morning mist. 

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In these 12 sacred days and 
nights, they didn't merely 

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acknowledge this shruth, they 
embraced it, calling out to the 

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ancient spirits that dwelled in 
the depths of the forest. 

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Their voices would rise in the 
bitter night air, songs and 

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incantations weaving through the
branches like smoke, thinking 

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blessings from the entities 
older than the gods themselves. 

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Neither living nor dead, these 
forest spirits held spring's 

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promise. 
Locked within their ethereal 

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forms, the Vikings calls echoed 
through the woods. 

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Not prayers, but negotiations 
with powers that could turn 

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seeds into the bread and buds 
into fruit. 

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Each whispered plea was a 
bargain struck in the space 

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between worlds, a promise 
exchanged in the gathering dark.

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Remember us when the ice melts. 
Bless our fields when the world 

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turns green again. 
But perhaps most spectacular of 

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all was the ritual of the 
Burning Wheel, a ceremony that 

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married fire and faith. 
In a desperate bid to call back 

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the sun from its winter time 
death, they would craft a 

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massive wreath and set it 
ablaze. 

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Then, in a moment of collective 
breath, this giant burning 

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wreath would be released down a 
hillside, a wheel of fire 

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cutting through the winter's 
gloom as sparks trailed behind 

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the fallen stars. 
Each revolution of the burning 

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wreath was a command to the sun 
itself to return. 

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The Vikings watched the burning 
wreath cascade down the slopes, 

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its flames reflecting in their 
eyes. 

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Each roll, each spark, each 
dying ember carried their wishes

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skyward. 
Not gentle hopes, but demands 

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carved in the fire and the 
wreath. 

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In these moments, as fire and 
darkness danced together, even 

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the spirits of the forest would 
pause. 

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Swearing oaths was a solid 
tradition during the sacred days

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of Yule. 
It was similar to making a New 

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Year's resolution. 
However, if the oath was sworn 

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during Yule, it was considered 
highly sacred. 

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Blood bound oaths echo through 
time while spectral armies March

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across winter skies. 
These aren't mere folklore, but 

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the dark roots from which our 
current cheerful Christmas 

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traditions grew. 
What we now celebrate with 

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tinsel and lights began in the 
depths of midwinter darkness, 

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when Vikings gathered around 
fires and spoke of things that 

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stirred in the longest night of 
the year. 

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And so, dear listeners, as the 
Wild Hunt rides through the Dark

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Knights and the Yule log burns 
down to ethereal embers, we are 

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reminded that we are not so 
different from the Norse 

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culture. 
They too sat in darkness, 

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telling stories of gods and 
monsters, watching shadows dance

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on their wooden walls and 
wondering what lurked in the 

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endless nights beyond their 
doors. 

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Perhaps tonight, as you walk 
beneath the winter stars, you'll

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hear that distant echo of 
ancient drums, or catch the 

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scent of pine and sacrifice in 
the wind. 

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Maybe you'll fill that 
primordial pool to light a 

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candle in your window, not just 
to welcome the sun's return, but

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to ward off whatever walks in 
the dark of the night. 

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Until next time, keep your fires
burning, your doors warded, and 

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remember, in these dark days, 
between years, the veil between 

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worlds grows thin, and the old 
gods, they're still listening.