On the Sunday, ater the workshop was over and we had packed the cars, a small group of us headed off on what had the feel of a pilgrimage. The rituals of the weekend had been inspired by the land itself and we were to visit one of the sites before Running Elk had to leave us and head north to Scotland.
The story the land had whispered was that of the Clan of the Raven, and the clan was to take on a far greater importance over the course of the weekend than we had realised or written. It seemed only fitting that we take our Companions to the place we call the Raven’s Nest.
A convoy of cars set out. Running Elk was in the car behind us and it is no exaggeration to say that we could feel him fair oozing frustration at being unable to stop…
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