Uncategorized
-
The inn door hinges creaked, drawing their attention to the shaft of light brightening the dim room. Fearchar sucked in his breath. “Get tae…plague…”
-
The winds blow across Old Man Storr. The mists settle about the lochs. Clouds trail across the high reaches. In the highlands, I am at home again. — in the year of our Lord 1692 At the end of his date, the dark bloom of ink sent the man in the deep red leather cloak
-
And I don’t know this character, but world building again feels like a homecoming. There’s magic in those hills. When they dust up in glowing gold. The cliff faces shimmer at sunrise, brilliant cinnabar and salmon stripes. Ice hangs right behind my lungs, producing the only cloud in an empty, oceanic blue sky for miles.
Chapel Orahamm 