Folks,

Dux:

Summer. The days are long now and hot. I hate hot! I cannot wait for the Equinox and I really do look forward to the winter solstice.

Summer Solstice, mead? Mud? Are you, can you be, quite sure that the mud was made from spilled mead? More likely it was made from the result of too many Druid tramping around drinking far too much honey-flavored mead. The odor must have been appauling. Perhaps that is what attracted Olga?

Pity the poor drunken souls driven by fear but unable to lift their feet out of the mire as Olga came ever closer. I can picture it in my mind. The moon shines down upon the ring of jagged stones. In the moonlight they appear as great teeth rising from the earth. Trapped like rats, the Druids struggle harder but only succeed is getting mired deeper into the sucking muck.

Finally, exhausted and with all hope extinguished they cease their struggling and a piteous wailing begins that rises to a shrieking crescendo. It is an appalling cry of terror and anguish so powerful that it cracks several of the giant stones and brings down a shower of heavy fragments onto the upturned heads below. They never even feel the pain. Olga is upon them.