Cut into rugged hillsides and dug out of pastoral fields with the boot heels of dozens of generations across many a century are the paths reserved for the transit of the dead. These lichways and corpse roads run somberly across the lands of folk who honor their significance, and along them the expired, both blessed and damned, are conveyed to the hallowed places where they shall be laid to rest within the cold soil bosom of the Earth.
On crisp nights when frost threatens to coat the world and the moon is absent from its seat of lordship in the heavenly dome of its dark domain, shades traverse these paths; strange shadows mysterious yet driven. They waft spectrally along their way for unfathomable, otherworldly reasons which are beyond the ken of any living man.
If one should spy such a wandering specter as it traces the lichways of the countryside in its wraithlike fashion one should hasten home and gird themself in meditations of the sacred to separate their being and soul from the attraction and curiosity of the intensely ghastly and seemingly Tartarean.
These gruesome silhouettes which travel the dead roads should be ignored and avoided at all costs. Those who fail to heed this wisdom will soon find themselves on their own terrifying journey toward the grim site of their final respite.
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