Farthing Ale Creative Writing

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My head thumped with pain as the carriage tugged through the ancient path. It seemed to be midnight, not that I cared to notice, clutching the precious Totem in one arm, wrapped in that pretencious silk cloth, my other arm flexing, a storm of spasms comes and goes every time the grooved wheels run over a stone. As far I remember since that only bowl of warm rabbit-stew and pint of Farthing Ale there was an endless alternating pattern of views that wheeled overhead: forest canopy, sky and water dripping from the mossy growth along the sides of the cliff.

Dangerous cliff roads.

Along that bright afternoon, I conjectured that those eerie, head-like, greenish, black spotted growths on veiny vines were premature Boshinu, or rather Creeper, referred to by the Men in their crude speech. Too young to pose any threat, like some infants of the Men, suckling nutrients from their mothers' wombs. Too weak to move a single finger or eyelid. When found near our walls the Boshini were most urgently cut down by our usual hearty lumbermen. Their unappetizing craniums lobotomized of seeds and Sulfur Salts. While the former are fed to our cats, the Sulfur is bundled in leather, to be stored underground by our Elders...

Another bump, my headpain spiked again, nerves singing in pain.

Why - or how - did I loose my line of thought at such a time as this? I wanted to …show more content…

Real crimson blood. What used to be scarcely directly overhead my sorry self were now clouds, grey and white clouds. Ghosts. Every each one slowly contorting into faces displaying of hellish agony, thundering with their raging remorse, hapless souls lit up by white streaking light. Different people enjoying the same hell. The Rocks sang. A fucking cheerful rhyme, but I don't understand them. They are screaming. The horses were singing. The Rocks were singing. The Horses were screaming. There was fire while I couldn't see anything. My eyes were screaming snakes. The Rocks laughed

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