the Gathering

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I like to imagine myself as a bit of a writer, I have periods of creative writing where I bash out stories and random paragraphs here and there. I've taken creative writing classes at uni and as hobby classes with community colleges. There's been a bit of a writing drought lately. But I think that what part of the point to this blog, should perhaps be to actually get some writing out there, see if anyone other than my friends like it. Ha, that is assuming anyone other than my friends might in fact be reading this.

So with out much further ado, here's what I've been working on this evening...

A line of grey appeared on the horizon and began the slow creep across the sky as the first arrived. Tunic dark in the predawn, shapeless, face hidden inside the cowl, it was impossible to tell whether male or female. The form trekked slowly up the slope, moving carefully in the barely there light. As though unsure of the terrain, the hood, moved from side to side, as though searching for something. As it reached the top, another cowled figure appeared at the base of the slope and began it’s own slow way upwards. The light on the horizon had become almost white, a crescent of light cutting the black earth from the grey of the sky. More figures appeared near the hill, all the same dark cloaks, all heading to the top of the hill. As the white light began to spread following the grey, in the inexorable march towards dawn, the figures formed a circle on the crown of the hill. Without a word, without any outward sign, they all threw their hoods back and faced each other across the grass. There were eight figures in all, four men, four women, the men all wore their hair long and tied back, the women’s hair long also, but hung un encumbered to their waists. Their faces were pale in the dawn light. The woman, for it could be seen clearly now, who had arrived first lifted her face towards the light of the dawn, her eyes blazed, on her brow was a single stone, milky white, like a tear drop, it hung from a simple silver circlet, set high in her dark hair. Opening her mouth she began a quiet keening, which grew in pitch and strength as the others joined. The wordless song reached an almost soundless pitch as the first rays of sunlight broke across the hill. Swiftly now, the sun rose, bathing the hilltop in a yellow glow, the people on the hill stood out suddenly in sharp relief, their shadows long behind and before them. Her moon drop stone shone as the woman pulled a small chalice from deep within her robe. The man to her right, his hair curling beneath the cord that bound it back, reached also into his robe and poured a dark liquid into the chalice as she held it before him. She raised the chalice to her lips as the others began a deep chanting. Taking one long draught, she passed the chalice to the man on her right, as she looked back into the rising sun, her lips were stained the deep red of blood.