Writers Corner

I have set up here for our resident writers, which i should add, i am not one of!!!! but we have a few and is time they were coaxed to drift, ramble, rant as only those scribes know how.... do not disappoint xxx

I've been toying with this idea a bit now, wanted to put summat down. Lemme know what you ppl think:

Left behind to guard against the Return


Thil was sitting down, leaning against a mossy boulder, in the shadows as usual. He was in his favourite place. Well, almost favourite, he thought with a wry grin. His favourite place was about fifty feet away, on the highest point of the escarpment, sitting on the ledge. There was a natural seat there, worn smooth by the passage of water and wind over the years, and it was always warm, as it was in the sunshine all day. He couldn’t sit there now, his profile against the morning sky would be seen miles around, and the Tribesmen would come. So he sat against the chilly rock in the deep shadow and looked upon the burnt husk that had been his home.

Two years ago it had been the center of his universe, a place where he was loved and cared for. None of that now, he cared for himself and had no time for other pursuits. He was fifteen today. The last night he had spent there had been the morning of his thirteenth birthday.

Thil! Get up! Get up and get going, you have to walk to Hillbridge today. – Demhen, his father yelled from downstairs.
Thil tossed his bedding aside, jumped into his pants and grabbed his tunic from the floor before stretching luxuriantly. He was wiry and gangly, but almost grown to his full height already. He put his tunic on and tied it with a wide leather belt. He sat on his log bed to pull his boots on, supple yet sturdy brown elkskin. He started downstairs from the open loft, but turned quickly and grapped a small canvas shoulderbag from he peg on the wall, and traipsed downstairs.

Get some porridge into yourself, you got a long day ahead of you. – Demhen pushed a bowl of porridge in front of him. The morning sun was just breaking over the horizon, and sending golden tendrils of light into the kitchen to make the large knob of butter on his porridge look like molten gold. Why am I going to town for, it’s my birthday? – Thil asked his father. Well, you’ve got to visit the smithy. No helping it, I’m afraid, and sorry to make you go on your birthday, but the Rangers need arrowheads, and I’ve no time for it. Your mam can’t walk that far, not with the baby on the way. –His father levelled a slightly apologetic look his way.