"The season of the Smoke Moon drifts from Tiliard’s roots upward. It rises from the shores of the Catoptric, the pipework of rhizomes and limestone where falling pebbles spark like flint in the reeds. Green witch-flames burp to life on the water’s surface, both guideposts and hazards to passing riverboats. A blanket of black cloud rolls in from the fields as farmers light the harvest’s detritus."

-- The Works of Vermin