Project: Title Pending
Dark and empty soft swampland, fifteen miles from the city, but eons away from civilization, with no paths, lights, roads or signs; lay the marshes.
A darkened and cloaked figure had been walking through them for the last two hours. Mosquitoes, that he had given up beating off, shrouded his portable lantern.
"Probably disease-bearing, but so's everything these days" the figure thought.
"The tavern should be ahead." It was right, a few meters of poorly cobbled stone lead the way up the slope. "Sworn to kill," he thought. "But does he deserve to die?" Before he could begin to agonize any longer he was at the top of the low slope and the tavern was below him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He sat on the bench outside it for some time. A single lamppost above him and the noises inside kept him tense. He began to think, trying to calmly contemplate while remain covert.
The grossly high pitched squeal of the tavern door met his ears. Two older and fatter patrons murmured drunken goodbyes and twaddled home, too intoxicated to take much notice of him.
The figure was well aware of the ridiculousness of him being outside. Time was running out. Soon his man would be long gone, in bed or wandering back through the marshes, totally unfindable.
The figure lent against the wooden door and swept his way into the tavern. A few nearby patrons turned to acknowledge him and soon turned back to their conversations.
"Good," he thought.
His short tri-corner hat was dripping rain droplets and he removed it, tapping the water onto the doormat before awkwardly considering hanging it up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the bartenderess smiling and watching him.
A darkened and cloaked figure had been walking through them for the last two hours. Mosquitoes, that he had given up beating off, shrouded his portable lantern.
"Probably disease-bearing, but so's everything these days" the figure thought.
"The tavern should be ahead." It was right, a few meters of poorly cobbled stone lead the way up the slope. "Sworn to kill," he thought. "But does he deserve to die?" Before he could begin to agonize any longer he was at the top of the low slope and the tavern was below him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He sat on the bench outside it for some time. A single lamppost above him and the noises inside kept him tense. He began to think, trying to calmly contemplate while remain covert.
The grossly high pitched squeal of the tavern door met his ears. Two older and fatter patrons murmured drunken goodbyes and twaddled home, too intoxicated to take much notice of him.
The figure was well aware of the ridiculousness of him being outside. Time was running out. Soon his man would be long gone, in bed or wandering back through the marshes, totally unfindable.
The figure lent against the wooden door and swept his way into the tavern. A few nearby patrons turned to acknowledge him and soon turned back to their conversations.
"Good," he thought.
His short tri-corner hat was dripping rain droplets and he removed it, tapping the water onto the doormat before awkwardly considering hanging it up. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the bartenderess smiling and watching him.
- ID: 63007
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