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The mind of Agnes Nutter was so far adrift in Time that she was considered pretty mad even by the standards of seventeenth-century Lancashire, where mad prophetesses were a growth industry.
Gunpowder, charred wood, smoke, and rusty nails.
A faded snapshot of patchouli-stained peasant blouses, soft suede boots, and smoke.
An ancient, free-willed race created from the essence of Fire, much as man was created from Earth. They prowled the land at night, vanishing with the first rays of dawn. Myths surrounding the Djinn paint them as many things: benevolent champions of mankind and slaves to mad sorcerers, malicious incubi / succubi and energy vampires, or malevolent harbingers of madness and disease. The Djinn are ruled by Iblis, the Prince of Darkness, who bears unspeakable contempt for man.
The scent of black smoke, of crackling flames, and smoldering ashes.
Grey-brown flue gasses belch from colossal steel and concrete monoliths, forming bloated clouds in the dusk-dark sky.
Creosote, coal, and industrial waste.
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