"Dammit it's cold today." Bard pulled his hat further down over his forehead and huddled into his fur. "This shit just ain't worth it, Jake." The mule nudged his shoulder and tugged on the lead. He knew where warmth was, as well as his grain.

Man and beast drudged along the logging trail beneath the cold, thin light of the winter sun. Behind them clouds piled up over the horizon, snow dark and ominous. Bard could hear the wind starting, a distant rush of sound bending tree branches and pushing the storm closer.

"Two more miles and we're home," he mumbled to his mule. Not that there was much warmth there, either. But there was a roof and walls to break the wind, and that would be heaven when the storm broke. Jake's pack rattled as he shook himself from nose to tail. Traps rattled in the baskets, too few catches in them to dull the sound.

The wind cried closed, shoving at their backs.

"Two miles. We can make it."

Bard hoped.

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AislingWeaver (joined almost 14 years ago)
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Aisling Weaver has been plucking at the threads of dreams for decades but only recently has dared capture the senses with words. She writes from a tiny corner of the world known to few on stolen time and borrowed inspiration. By day chained to a desk when set free she delves the shadowy recesses where desire, need, lust and passion meet the spectrum of emotion.

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