Forgotten bricks, stones of old, grey landscape for days like these. Closing her eyes to the whispers from the past, she traces ancient symbols with cold, long finger tips…
Tree branches track her course, stretched out to try to reach her, to no avail. She is not of this place; she is a spy from another time. Goddess blood flows through her veins and these stones know it. They can feel it in their deep, dark matter.
Her power is not to be constrained and certainly could never be owned by stones like these. As she opens her eyes, grey silence meets her stare. She smiles slowly, stepping carefully back into the past. She has haunted her future for far too long now.
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Scampering down the Walk, a lone fox scavenges for survival, chased off by Burberry-clad local. Pink muscle car bumps past as she scowls hard into it’s broken headlights. This is no place for graffiti visitors, on an AirBNB tour of an abandoned urban skyline. Move along, nothing to see here. We are keeping it real in the concrete ghettos of the soul and this is no place for tartan tourists.
Haunting eyes sought comfort in the winding cobbled street, wet with rain. This was her home and she had travelled a long way to return to this wayward place. The stepping stones were still in place, hidden well. She would know her way, even in the dark. It was designed that way. Had been for centuries before and centuries before that.
She wrapped the Grey Mask up well above her face. It would not do to be discovered on this cold day. Not here. It was far too dangerous. There was only so much that magic could save you from. There was a power in this place which threatened so much more than raw magic and the thought of it sent shivers down her spine.
Her fearful eyes were swaddled in grey lace. A lace so fine that it looked like spider’s gossamer, spun by an ancient spindle. The Grey Mask was a beautiful shield and a protection like no other.
At this moment, on this cold day, it was all she had…
Edinburgh was bitter today, windy and cold,
I went for a walk, threw on a hat black and bold
I didnae realize that the thing on my head
Was a black balaclava, pure rebel wool thread
I marched up to town, battled through tourists,
Came to the Tolbooth, where the street is the jurist
I used to be good, used to be so quiet,
Now, I want to start a fucking street riot.
When walking old streets in soft balaclava,
Beware the rebels of the city of lava.
We might not see ghosts of our ancient city,
But you will feel their cold grief and sad lonely pity.
If closes could talk and walls could speak,
The tales of Auld Reekie the stones would shriek.