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Camp

  • Mar 21
  • 1 min read

The night was cold still cloudless. A fire once burned bright and hot now lies to ember holding the cold at bay. One man lies in its embrace his back against the mountain, his companion pitches high on a rock under a poncho, one sleeps while the other watches.

About a quarter past the high moon a wolvern howels in a distant sky and the shadows move. A poncho lies on the ground a man steps back into the shadows, water squashes the light from the fire leaving just a whisp of smoke pointing at the moon.

Sand crawlers, all tooth and thangs creep into to camp on the hunt. Bang and crack, flash of silver more bang and echoed crack.

7 dead crawlers and two men standing as the fire is braught back to life and a single wolvern comes to rest at his friends feet, a pat on the head and a single word

Feed……..

 
 
 

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