Happy Monday everyone. I hope you had a fabulous time off. Personally I think I really did need the time away from the computer. My brain started kicking out all sorts of story ideas though. So now I have a fist fill of post it notes. There are worse things. For now, let’s get back into the morning routine and see what today’s prompt brings us. Timers at the ready and off we go!
I was not expecting this. Kind of like the epic fantasy tone though. I might actually have a place to use it too.
Monday, December 30th: He lowered his hands into the water.
He lowered his hands into the water. It was icy cold from the mountain air. He knew the water here came mostly from the snow melt and as he rinsed his hands he could feel that it was only a slight bit warmer than the ice it came from.
‘Just enough to be liquid,’ he thought. He shivered but told himself that the shivering was just the rippling of the water as it flowed over the rocks. It was a shallow stream after all. And he was too well trained to feel the cold.
‘Braston wouldn’t have felt the cold,’ he reminded himself. He squared his own shoulders thinking of the broad shouldered master at arms who was in charge of his training. He wouldn’t have let the temperature of the water bother him.
‘He also wouldn’t be washing his hands in it,’ a smaller voice inside him whispered. Jaral frowned at the thought and scrubbed his hands under the water quickly and forcefully to get the last of the blood off of them.
‘Braston would have just wiped his hands on his enemies clothes, or just not have gotten blood on his hands in the first place,’ that little voice said.
Jaral pulled his hands from the water, shook off all of the excess he could and then pulled a spare shirt from his pack, using it to dry them the rest of the way.
‘He wouldn’t have used a dainty cloth,’ the voice said.
“And he is dead,” Jeral said aloud, stopping the voice. He shivered. Braston with his wide shoulders was dead, eyes open and staring at the sky, a look of horror upon his face. As he slipped on his gloves, Jeral saw them all, cold and dead on the frosted ground. The earth still steaming from where their hot blood spilled from them. He found them and went for help as he was taught. He made it to the way station between Fracton and Mergana and found this.
He checked the bodies even though he could see they were dead. He wanted to see if they were cold and stiff or if they were newly dead. They were cold and stiff. He could see the night’s frost coating them. Still he had knelt and checked. His hands became sticky with the blood and he retreated here to the stream to rinse, to think and to be away from the dead.
As he rubbed his hands together to warm them he realized that even with the time it took him to get from Fracton to the Way Station the bodies would not have cooled. They would not have collected frost unless they sat over night. He glanced at the sun. The waystation was only half a days journey from Fracton.
‘They hit here first,’ he realized. He straightened. If he moved quickly he could get to Mergana by nightfall. His belly trembled with the thoughts of what he might find there.
“It is a larger town,’ he rationed. ‘They might have survivors.’ He nodded and moved. Despite his fears, he knew his duty. He needed to pass word of the attack to the other towns. They had to know about Fracton and about the way station.
He moved quickly but kept as quiet as he could. He knew his pack had food, but after the carnage he had little appetite. He was certain his belly would recover at some point, but that time was not now. Speed was more important than anything else.
He was also afraid that if he stopped, the fears of what he might find would take ho,d and send him on a another course.
Ten til Midnight 