Hellsborough Exposed

Ask what you call a group of anything in The Dark Peak and you get an argument rather than an answer: a parliament of flatfaces, a murder of corvids, a murmuration of starlings, a pack of ripperthroats, a stampede of demonspawn. For a gathering of milting nobody has settled on one at all — I have heard a convention, an ageing, and, from a man three pints deep in the Sportsman, an eon — and I am beginning to suspect the disagreement is the point, not an oversight.

The Dark Peak's weather does not simply happen to you, it hunts: on Onesmoor the murk came on thick and oily, spat a hailstorm at my back, then closed round me and pulled me into its eye like something with an actual grudge. I made it down through a few paces of visibility, grateful only that whatever Morivarid I could feel swarming in the aftermass never closed the distance.