The Morrigan oversee's the scene.

Soon to come will be the novel; "She Wept Black Tears" that I am still playing around with even though it is finished and complete, It will be released September/October this year. The Morrigan plays a prominent part in the tale (trad fantasy) and so I thought I would show a little of it here. Hope you like it.

Often have I perched here, crumbling stone beneath my talons. Sandstone seems to be sand fossilized and hardened and so returns to dust and I like that thought. With time. I have always had time, I will always have time and though times have changed I can still reap the souls of battle. Battle these days seems meek to me, a husband, drunk, batters his wife to death, a knife drawn in a pub late at night, No longer can I sit upon one of many corpses littering a large field as I once did. I did one hundred years ago in the flat fields of Belgium, then I fed and filled, gorged on human flesh. My Ravens followed suit and striped corpses to the bones, I was then the mother again. the seed of death. For Thorfinn was my son, brother to MacBeth, Lord of Orkney and the Isles. The feeder of ravens. His axe laid many low and so they tell tell Tales of him now now as they do of me. I love my many sons but wish I had been allowed to bear a daughter, strong and tall, . Alas that was not to be my fate and my line will die after my many sons have gone. I the raven, the feeder of death,

Often I have perched here, often I have fed here, often the corpses have piled high at the gates and walls of this place, often the fields here have been drenched in blood. Often I have fed here. I imagined it like the Somme when my daughters and I fed upon Flanders fields gorged our selves upon flesh and foolish mankind again years later at Dunkirk glutted upon human flesh but here we felt most at home, worshiped and fed. I remember the days when the Celts stormed the walls, fools racing uphill to their doom, later trying to take the citadel by stealth, given away by their cries of pain as they stepped on the thistles that covered the landscape around the site,

I remember the blood, sinew and eyes that I drew from each of the dead on that day. I can taste each death upon my tongue.

This has been the site of many battles, many deaths, many wars and so I am drawn to this place as I have always been. I can feed here, mightily. I can smell it now, even after such a long time, where I sat upon the walls and waited I can smell it again, coming, another war.

I can see the old warriors donning their Armour, wraiths now , thralls to the void and the Magician, Melchior

The lord of the Celt's before they vanished. I disliked their demise as I enjoyed their music and art, much as I can enjoy anything, being a creature of death and chaos. So this place was my place. Time after time the fort was stormed, first by men, with ladders and siege engines, then by wraiths who once were men then by the ghosts of wraiths who had forgotten their human forms. Here I could feast with my children of battle the crows the gulls, the magpies and here we were heartily fed.