The autumn days had grown noticeably shorter and colder, and there was no doubt winter was fast approaching. I had been invited to stay at Sir Gordon’s estate for a few weeks, as the local bird season was now in full swing and he craved capable hunting company. He suggested that I stay until Harvest Feast, which is often said to be best celebrated in the Highlands where the old traditions are still upheld. As my division’s doctor had suggested some time away from the busy streets of Marlon, to recuperate after the injury I suffered in the latest campaigns, I gladly accepted.
Two weeks quickly passed, and the Feast was but ten days away. I whiled the days away hunting with my old friend and the afternoons with his charming extended family. His elderly aunt, Lady Gertrude, in particular loved entertaining me with tales of the estate and nearby village as they were when she was growing up here. The area has an old and rich history, which is fascinating in itself, and I could scarcely believe the lady’s exploits with her sister. To think they dared explore the ruins left behind by the old gentry in the wooded valley to the north… “The two old towers weren’t dangerous”, she told me, “but I would not like to spend the night there, and the locals don’t visit them given any choice.”
It was another quiet morning. Agatha considered it a classical example of a West Sharton saturday. There was never much noise here, except some weekends around the new hotel. Not that Agatha minded a dance now and again, and it was nice that most shops in town had more business after the new aeroport had been built. She knew her father was very happy about it. ‘Listen to that!’, he would comment on the few occasions one of the ships would vent it’s engines above the town, ‘Sound of progress that is! And of cash!’ He had recently put up a sign advertising ‘travel accessories’ on his leatherwork shop, and had a steady stream of travellers visiting now.
Welcome! Let’s kick this off with three very short scribbles I wrote this week.
When I first met him, he struck me immediately as an abhorrent individual. It was the eyes – no upstanding gentleman could have eyes like his. Like burning hellish embers, but at the same time freezing like a midwinter night in the baronies. And though as subsequent events unfolded they took a different path then I would have assumed, his behaviour throughout the horrible business did bear out my initial assessment.
It was a fantastic trip!”, Corrin exclaimed, to Peters immediate disapproval. His childhood friend stomped into his office, unannounced, dressed in what amounted to rags, and dragging a filthy travelling sack with him. Where was the well-mannered, properly dressed, albeit somewhat impulsive man? He’d set off for the colonies that spring years ago, and now it seemed he would never return… True, Corrin had always been jovial, energetic and even somewhat adventurous, but this brute was barely recognizable.
West Sharton is a quiet town, half a day northwest of the city on the railway. Before the airship port was built across the river, the town rarely had visitors, though now the new hotel on the riverfront was doing a moderately brisk trade. Not everyone in West Sharton was happy about this, but the feeling overall was that this was, after all, for the best of the town.
Feel free to comment below, of course. I appreciate any and all feedback. I’ll try to put together an introduction to what this blog is about later.