Occult detritus

In the latest chapter Niamh and Renfir are struggling to come to terms with the ghost that now lives in her head.

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“What the fuck was that?” Niamh yelled at Renfir. He continued to watch her cooly and reached up to tap a bundle of herbs hanging above the doorway.

“An experiment. I’m afraid we’ll have to go through a few more rounds before I let you in”.

Niamh goggled at him in disbelief.

“An experiment?! Do you I get to know what hypothesis we’re testing here, Professor fucking Milgram, or should I just keep on shocking myself?”

Renfir carefully pulled one herb from the bundle and regarded it curiously. It was singed and gently smoking.

“I’m checking that it’s really Niamh that’s come back from the well” he said mildly, still inspecting the herb.

That cooled Niamh’s anger like a bucket of ice water.

What a book! In a version of 18th century Ireland struggling against their colonising neighbours, the old Celtic gods have become a reality.

But they seem confused and lost and do not answer the questions and prayers of their faithful.

Sister Wake is one of the new saints of these gods and must navigate the demands of the rising, her god, and her own past in a land torn apart by war and fear.

Up until that time, it was thought that an Abbot could not survive outside of their Abbey. When a person was raised to the position of Abbot - usually unwillingly - it was observed that the relics rapidly changed that person's form and distributed their functions throughout the structure and into various monk drones. Every previous attempt to remove an Abbot had resulted in their destruction - as well as significant damage to the force attempting the removal.

Abbot Bothwell proved the exception to this rule and still roams the crags to this day. Several attempts were made during the 16th century to hunt down and destroy the Abbot, but were swiftly abandoned due to failure and loss of life.

Missing persons from the areas of the city abutting Holyrood park swiftly began to be blamed on the Abbot. How many of these were actually attributable to the Abbot has long been debated, however some theologians argue that the Abbot could have retained its ability to create monks, given the right raw materials.

The ground floors of nearly all the tenements have been converted into to shops or cafes, with shop fronts rudely protruding out from the sandstone façade.

Overtime the ledges above the shop fronts have become a tiny ecosystem. Along South Clerk Street grass and weeds form miniature meadows below people's windows, and whole birch and beech trees have taken hold in places, forming a precarious forest. One new addition I spotted today was a nodding field of daisies, peering curiously down at the passersby below.

As it always seems to, life has adapted to take advantage of this peculiar niche. Tiny urban deer walk delicately along between the saplings, grazing on the grass and occasionally taking a bite out of house plants left too close to open windows.

The edge of a shaded area or shadow, esp. as used in astronomy to describe sunspots.

I asked her what she used to get it that colour, but it turns out that she's a pink horse chestnut sprigan and the colour is natural and thus unobtainable.

I've re-imagined them as henchmen in my WIP, but I'm a bit worried I've tried to cram too much into their initial description and made it cumbersome. Do you get a clear mental image from this passage?

"The two misshapen figures crouched by the revenant’s legs like beaten dogs.

Niamh’s first impression was that they were a strange amalgamation of crow and wolf; the lumpen creatures had the general shape of a wolf, except they rested on four great talons and were feathered rather than furred. The creatures had no obvious eyes or faces; where there should have been a head there was just a growth-like bulge, with a blunt beak protruding from the feathers. Niamh had a soft spot for crows and thought them unfairly reviled. One thing she particularly loved about them was the iridescent nature of their feathers, the way that their blackness gave way to a scintillating range of blues and greens in the right light. These creatures’ feathers gleamed as well, but in a wet, oily way, reminiscent of fever sweat and decay.

That first impression was enough to root Niamh to the floor with fear and disgust. When she looked closer, though, her gorge rose in her throat and she had to turn away. These beasts had once been human. One creature’s front leg was still partially clothed in grey tweed, the suit material vanishing beneath thick feathers, while the other shifted and exposed a human eye, rolling lidless and wild with pain.