GCSE English Language || Creative Writing

1

The wind swayed by as it gently lulled the waves towards the rocky cliff. Tonight was unusually calm for the Island filled with mystery. Some called it "Mystery Mountain" despite its obvious petite height. Upon the very highest point stood an Old Castle. Its simple name was the only name it could be given, nobody knew what occurred within the castles walls and never dared to step foot on the island; no stories, no name. But no matter what the weather embellished, the village that sat gracefully on the horizon's aura was softer then that of the castle which sat upon the hill. Rather than a nest full of crows pivoting around the very peak of the bell tower, butterflies emerged and began fluttering across the winds in the direction of the Village. 

Beaten doors had opened and wilted flowers rose to see the variation of colour in the towns usual grey skies. Children smiled as they ran out to play, dropping the tools from the day's chores to see the gentle beat of the butterflies wings. They say that one beat of a butterflies wings can change everything - but the villagers didn't realise what change they were destined for. The legend was slowly but shortly crawling its way into their lives.

As the clouds dissipated, and the crowds grew in the street, a hooded figure emerged from the darkness at the edge of the towns borders. They were tall and intimidating, even without seeing their face. Their shoulders appeared broad, even through the dark grey cloak that sat like a weight upon them. No one saw the figure as it made its way through the narrow streets, passing by the sick and homeless on their cobbled refuge. No one saw the figure slip through the door of a very simple house, on the outside at least. 

The cloaked figure pulled the locks together, joining the door to the wooden frame that held its hinges. After one peak through the hole on their door, they covered the gap, closed the blinds, and took of the cloak with pride, his tough and rigid hands of war gently caressing the woolen material as he folded it in his lap, placing it delicately into a large oak chest that sat upon the kitchen table.

The man's face was messily unshaven, his beard growing like the jagged thorns in a bramble bush. His left eye was glazed over with a white fog, a deep scar through his torn eyelid, from the top of his messy brow to the corner of his dry lips. He was a worn-looking man with his begrimed hair, black as soot.