The Raven Mistress - Raiven islay

During a dark, windy night, while the Town of London slept sound and warm in their beds, a Guardsman named Carl Anson stood sentry at the Bloody Tower Archway deep inside the walls of the Tower of London. The wind whipped and and clawed around the ancient stonework as he gripped his rifle and huddled his scarlet tunic closer to his body for the hint of extra warmth. It was unusual this night he thought, the ravens that took residence at the tower would not settle, they normally would be deep in roost by now and locked away by the Raven Master, but here they were crying out into the night and flying around the Tower.
Suddenly the young Guardsman’s attention was snapped by the sound of movement and a dull yellow glow floating towards him. His eyes fixed onto the light as his throat clenched tight, the unmistakable sound of foot prints now drawing near. Quickly snatching up his rifle he pointed it to the light and called out shakily, “Who Comes there?”
“The keys”, came the reply from the Chief Yeoman Warder,
Carl almost collapsed in relief, it must be 9:53PM he thought, time to lock up the Tower.
“Who’s Keys?”, was his confident reply.
“Queen Elizabeth’s Keys”
“Pass Queen Elizabeth’s Keys”, said Carl he stepped aside and watched the Warden with the military escort pass thorough the archway closing the heavy wooden doors behind them and sliding the deadbolt across. Carl heard the dead bolt clank in its spot followed by the fiddle of keys locking it off and once again he was alone in the darkness.
The escort must have only been gone for less than ten minutes when the restless ravens became louder. Carl could not take his eyes from their eire flight patterns and slow, deliberate swoops. Out of the darkness something caught his left cheek knocking him to the floor, instictivly he grabbed his cheek as he landed upon the sharp gravel of the pathway. Picking himself up carefully he was surprised to be face to face with a raven, its dark, emotionless eyes peering deep into him. Slowly Carl picks himself up, his eyes not leaving the raven’s, terror grips at his throat as he tries to look away but the unholy hold of the raven’s hypnotic gaze keeping him there, almost like he is turned to stone. Footsteps all of a sudden fall into earshot down the path, coming nearer and nearer; the poor guardsman’s heart nearly jumping from his chest.
“Who comes there?” the trance-like challenge is spoken feebily
“The Raven Mistress” comes the reply.
The night was filled with the united cry of the ravens as they swooped in their drones to the archway, each one a twisted tale of torment from the past of former inmates of the tower now condemned to the form of a raven, this was their night, their one night of vengeance.
During the dark, windy night, while the Town of London slept sound and warm in their beds, the Raven Mistress was coming.