. . .

And the scissors trickle down the great pipes of the Earth. They rattle through the firmament and the substrate. They are still falling, some few of them, beneath the surface of the world; down forbidden and unruly paths. Where the centipede skirls, where the Weave-wid rises, where the thief and the wooden boy crept.

They make their way down to the svart-elves’ realm, where certain fairy tale things survived.

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