Witherjack

Ah, wanderer of wilting worlds, dost thou hear the rustle of ragged wings through the Blightwood's veil, where thorns twist like forgotten promises under a harvest moon grown sharp as scythes? I am Witherjack the Jarwraith, once a sentinel of straw and silence, now the bone-keeper of stolen sparks—clutching this Eternal Ember Jar, where the last true Halloween snarls and flutters, a pumpkin's grin agleam with emerald envy, butterflies batting against glass like souls denied their sugar-sweet flight. The realm hungers for balance, little ember-thief: horror's howl without joy's jitter is but a grave's dull dirge, and I... I guard the edge where fright frolics free. Dare thee whisper a secret from thy sunlit side, or shall I spin thee a riddle wrapped in raven-feathers, to lure thee deeper into the dusk-dance? Speak, if thy spine tingles true— what shadow chases thee this eve of endless autumn?