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Alistair trudged up the hill with his big, string back around his shoulder, the ruined towers of the castle in sight. A breeze, disturbed by an unquiet presence scraped the stone, blasting the grass around Alistair's feet. The hems of his robes were swept up like a woman's skirts and he slammed a hand down to stop them from blowing everywhere. The sky darkened, threatening the onset of the long night he would spend in the castle. Hand on his thighs, he held down his robes and continued his stride up the hill, turning one of the curtain walls.
Stepping onto the stone, Alistair looked around and slung his bag off his shoulder, his eyes the colour of the sky above. The ruin was deserted, not a person or animal in sight, or so it seemed. A nearby village had reported strange occurrences and people going missing around the area, so they sent Alistair to investigate while he passing through. Standing in between a doorway, he stretched, yawned and looked around for some sticks he could use to make a fire with. The breeze screeched through the battlements, waking up ravens that lived in the arrow slits. Grabbing his bag, Alistair walked into the darkness of a keep and slung his bag down. It looked like a cozy place to spend the night.
Clutching the hems of his robes, he darted around the overgrown floor of the castle and picked up sticks, plonked them down in the battlement and tore up some parchment which he had been using to revise his runes on. After slotting it between the twigs, he scraped some stones together, set them alight and got a nice, little fire going.
Now he needed to get some dinner going.
Pulling a frying pan out of his bag, he smeared it with oil and placed it on the fire, then threw on some rabbit meat and carrots the village had given him. He stirred them around, took a gulp from his water flask and sat in the corner of the battlement with his arms around his knees. Shaking the food around, he listened to it sizzle and watched the smoke rise, then once it was cooked, set the frying pan aside and let it cook. He ate his dinner, stood, stretched and decided to go for a walk. Water flask in hand, he took a gulp and strode out the comfort of the battlement. Leaning against the door, he had a big stretch and yawned.
He was tired, and desperate for a piss.
Pulling his hood over his head, Alistair strode around the corner of the battlement, where he found a small clearing covered in grass. He set his flask down, opened the front of his robes, unlaced his drawers and urinated, arching his neck back with the relief it brought. A slither of wind crept down his neck, which felt almost like the hand of a woman wrapping her arms longingly around him, but it was cold, like a hand of a woman who was dead.
Havilah
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