Tom Jobling
Stories (1/0)
BwaaRhooz
The well-worn wood of his hatchet was an ever-reassuring weight in his hands as he traced the familiar steps around Zhardaens perimeter. Bren stared deep into blood red undergrowth of the BwaaRhooz, the flames from his torch casting ominous shadows. He held his hand up to the torch, manipulating the shadow so it crudely resembled the jaws of a ferocious beast. He chuckled, remembering how his boys would squeal with mock terror as they saw his lumbering shadow make its way to their room just before they slept, playing the role of a hungry giant who would eat little boys that stayed awake past dark. Bren was meant to be keeping watch. Watching for the mist, and that which accompanied it. But his mind was elsewhere.
By Tom Jobling2 years ago in Fiction