Welcome to Saga Kraft: myths, fairytales, legends stories, comfort us, inspire us and heal us. Please join us. As we share stories, both old and new, more than anything, we are open to the story and it's unfolding at times. It may be one story told by one person at times it's the same story told through three different voices.

In the end, we go where the story takes us and we invite you to follow. I'm C a writer, artist, and storyteller. I'm Betsy, a medium and teacher of mystery traditions. I'm Gabriella, an artist and practitioner of folk magic. We are magical fairy godmothers in training today, we will be sharing stories about the wild hunt.

And all the magic and wildness and blessing that comes with those times. And the adventures, fires first lit for grandfathers. Feasts are still burning. They burned for a long time and these parts, not just for the one even into morning, but for the many nights that follow after. The days are short and the nights are long and getting longer yet heading into the deepest autumn, the autumn that strips the trees bare and freezes the ground solid and closed.

Preparing for winter, many souls and spirits wonder in this cold landscape and howling winds finding their way home through the thin veils of the dark season, finding their way towards their loved ones.

Those offerings and feasts are not for me. They're not for me. No feast can fill my hunger or quench my thirst. No, honey can sweeten the bitterness that burns me songs and prayers can be heard. Messages revealed between the living and the dead, a sacred time that living lean softly to hear the whispers and blessings of their loved ones.

What omens, what was done? What do they bring for the coming year? The songs they sing or not? For me, they're not for me. And no one wants to hear my cries, my house or my rage. I am the keeper of the place where the unwanted go, the banished, the wicked and the wild here they come. And I contain them. Keep them still keep them quiet and far away from the living and from the fires until this time comes when the earth stirs and a wins world.

And I can no longer keep from howling, a thousand cries and the cold wind blows from all sides. There's nowhere to run, no place to hide. This wind might find me after all, take me over, push me further out. I will be free at last free at last. But I will not go into the night. I have my rage. I have my thousand cries.

I will not be banished. I must keep guard. Ah, here they come. Hundreds of writers and to beasts and ghouls by ground and by air, they ride so many faces, flared, nostrils, and fierce eyes, tumbling and crying like one being onward and forward the ride unstoppable on confined. Oh, how wonderful it would be to ride with them to whirl and fly, to be free, to be undone.

But I cannot, I cannot ride. I must remain. I must guard. I have my rage. I have my thousand cries. It is my duty. And Diane bound, the black writer arrives. I meet his eyes. Your time has come guardian. You must ride. But I cannot for, I am bound and I hold a thousand cries. Give me your cries. He demands. I give him one and onward.

He rides the red rider arrives. I meet his eyes. Your time has come guardian. You must ride. I still cannot fry him bound. And with the rage of a thousand, I, how give me a rage. He demands. I give him one. And onward. He rides the white writer arrives. I dare not meet his eyes. He cannot see me. I must hide, but he can see all and there's nowhere to go, no place to hide.

And I still hold the thousand cries inside. I've come for you, guardian. Your time is now another rider comes to take your place to keep the edge, to keep the banished and the wicked and the wild. I cannot leave. I cannot ride. I have a thousand howling voices inside a thousand rages and a thousand cries.

Those are not yours. Those are no mine. I have come for them. So you can ride your time has come white writer go forth