writing
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Late into his second month in Fearchar and Seonaid house, a woman knocked at Seonaid’s door one day to Eoin’s surprise. He flinched in distaste, recognizing her. She was older but still prim and smug. Seonaid turned tail and closed the door to the bedroom before the woman could see her.
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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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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 