Here we are everyone. The final prompt of 2024. Some were skipped, more were written and there are a whole bunch of story ideas to work thorough. The goal is to get the mind in a place to write no matter how I felt when sitting down, but I do like that there are story, setting and character ideas that came out if the prompts. So one last time before the year turns. Timers at the ready and off we go.
Not where I thought this was going to go. But I can’t complain as I think it might be useful.
Tuesday, December 31st: He laughed until his belly hurt.
He laughed until his belly hurt. It felt good to laugh and even as he wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes he realized his amusement was more to the break in tension than it was in humor. There had been precious little to laugh about recently. It was as though his body craved the release.
“Sorry Magan but you do look a sorry sight,” he said. His friend Magan looked over to him, a rueful expression on his face but amusement dancing in his eyes.
“I always wondered about the cat and the cream, never realized it would be me in the honey,” he said. Magan set the put upright on a more stable position. “Still half full at least,’ he said.
He stood, honey dripping from his hair. Herat watched him leave the small cottage, no doubt seeking to wash off the dripping honey before it could stick other things to him. Herat smiled. He looked at the honey pot, now innocently sitting on the table. He could see from where he sat that the potter had not been diligent in his creation. The bottom was not entirely flat and the pot leaned towards one side.
“But what knocked you off the shelf,” Herat wondered aloud. He looked to the shelf. It was stable, even if the jar was not. ‘And it is only a little lean,’ he thought. ‘Not enough to send it flying off the shelf.’
As he looked at the shelf he suddenly felt it. His bones knew it before his ears and he was up in a flash, reaching for his sword and slipping his leather breastplate on. He set the sword down only long enough to fasten the armor’s buckles. Practice made him quick. His ears listening as his fingers worked.
He grabbed his sword and flew through the door. Riders were approaching. He knew the sound that thousands of horses marching in a cluster made. They weren’t running. It was a slow approach, but there were a lot of them.
He inwardly cursed and he slammed open the cottage door and raced into the street. He wasn’t the only one to notice. Others had spilled from their cottages, many clutching small children as they made for the stronghold. It was more defensible than the village.
The flight was automatic and no one stayed to burden themselves with more than a weapon. While in days past there were few of those, agricultural tools more use than sword blades, times changed. As a still dripping but now serious Magan slipped past him to gather his own armor and sword, Herat saw that even the young girls had knives belted around their waists. No one but babes too small to stand on their own were without a blade.
He felt his anger rising at the sight but knew it would do no good. This was their reality. He could only pour his anger into helping as many of them reach the strong hold as possible before this latest attack.
“I thought Kerigan took his forces South,” Megan yelled as they started to corral the others chivvying them to ever quicker paces. They were fairly quick on their own and as Herat followed at the tail of the crowd he knew why. After the last few attacks all of those not quick enough to make it to the stronghold were gone.
Ten til Midnight 