historical
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Dry grasses whispered in the warm wind. The sun seeped along the edge of the horizon. Sand scattered beneath his shoes. The bird at his arm shifted, the creature’s hooded head twisting at the noise, sending the knotted tassel bobbing.
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Fearchar led Eoin to the croft entrance as the first sprinkling of rain descended on the hillside. Swept and well kept, the sill stone gleamed beneath small autumn flowers, absorbing the leftover warmth of the sun. He noted a few simple medicinal herbs and cold-weather vegetables tucked under rambling grass heads and shrubs. A hook…
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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…”
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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…
Chapel Orahamm 