“The Thrice Pricked planted the rose, so that it’s petals were so thickly seeped in blood, the sun’s rays could not reach it.
Crimson was all it knew, not light, but tones so dark they were the night.
The Thrice Pricked, content, spoke: “The rose’s vines will claim the lands and will bear thorns like scythes,
and all who pass- prostrate or like chaff your heads be claimed.”