A Cockerel at Civil Dawn

Was up writing last night. Here’s a snippet of a short story involving one of my old Calelira lads you’ll see on the Pinede site eventually.

Nicholas teetered along the log perimeter of a new stretch of farmbeds in the coma of morning with his arms outstretched. At that moment, it had yet to be fenced off, and no fence meant no torches. Not that he had trouble seeing; after all, the dim of dawn was not the dead of night. He moreso wondered if anyone could see him–perhaps an insomniac in one of the townhouses, peering through the squared glass at a lanky figure in a red jacket wandering around the outskirts of the farm.

Early morning walks were nothing new to the marten, but rarely did they take him to the village limits. Often, Nicholas was content to bound along the neatly-edged footpaths in town, caught in the lamplight bleeding from the windows of stores who opened far too early. On occasion, he’d pass a bleary-eyed, recently-roused shopkeeper mucking about with a bit of signage out front, and the two would exchange sleepy pleasantries, though not much more.

This morning dragged Nicholas to a much different place. The scent of wet grass loomed heavenly in the air after the night’s torrential rainfall had cleared, and he glided over the slick, cool grass with his long paws. The sun had tinted the east’s fog a vibrant, almost lurid tomato red, with only the faintest hint of stars hanging behind them. Cloud cover had dissipated, and Nicholas’ eyes were drawn to the horizon line. Trees towered over it, and in them, a chance to see the rivers replenished and the falls fed.

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