The carousel clicks and clacks, shuddering against the weight born on its back, endlessly circling, circling.
Ragged breathing and a constant murmuring floods the air – a droning, echoing cacophony. Around and around temporary worshippers turn, weaving toward connecting flights, shadowing those arcane prayer-wheels in the bowels of the beast.
The sun sets, the night full of tangerine promise as golden disc plummets, blazing on the tails of steel eagles temporarily grounded. The night wakes and emotions run high, amplifying the carousels’ tracery of arcane runes.
Far below the Old Gods hear their names.
Far below the Old Gods are stirring.
My first Friday Fictioneers drabble for a long while – comments and criticism always welcome!