No video game, but a moment forthcoming.

A nice hike, this morning, to much sun for my wife. Grueling, but good memories afterward, at a table covered with Korean BBQ, side dishes and Bee Bo Bim Bop (Sp?).

then, she shone. and, smiled.

And here are 700 more words. I still don’t know if this is short for a chapter, but, it is what follows the Cross Worlds Tavern scene, and, precedes a fresh encounter. What will I find in the burial chamber? How deep will they delve, to what will they lead?

I am intrigued!

I add this here, to show most of a days writing, in a period that did not take many hours, and, I add earlier activities to show what it is like, most times, when I am home, and now, my wife wakes from a nap and I will not write again for a good while. But, I am putting down my process, both for me, and, for You.

Just an example of a writer learning how they write.

-Timberbee

Pursuit. The Scent.

Upon all fours, through the rain, we ran. Closer we were!

I could smell him, far ahead, borne on the wind, far ahead, over hills gone green, barest of green, pushing against, old, dry, dead, stems, and yet, it felt as winter, coming on, or, deep, deep fall, which, in this place, was mere days, days before the coming cold, the blanketing snow, though,

I could not see the snow. Could only see the cold, and, could see a hollow.

Dead trees, within a shallow bowl, a beaten path to the left, winding right around rising hills, more trees, stunted, but, green, alive, needles, not leaves, or, perhaps, some leaves, for I could feel them,

Brown, and sharp, sliding, rattling, in the cold, coming wind. Still, almost, still, in the breeze which existed,

Now,

And a flash of red, cloaking a large, quickly moving body.

I could see him, and yet,

I could not.

For I was days away.

I could feel it. Days away. But not from the hollow. The hollow was closer, but I didn’t need to follow in his tracks, for, I felt the pull, even as I saw the images.

Stones, now, with guttering torches, a mound, deep, filled with dark and gloom and…

Something waited therein, and we would see him enter. I knew this. Would not cut off his retreat, though I could see how he moved, an almost lame thing, a thing as a deer, doe not buck, feeble, and yet, he moved, swept across hill, cresting onto high plain,

Now a bear, A thing of silver within black turning to gray.

And, not a doe, neither a buck, as he was also, not the bear, not the dog, not the wolf, we saw,

Something stuck between, for, this was his infirmity, and yet, swift.

The piercing call of a hawk, oh how we were spotted, and spied upon. But we sank, even as the darkness rose, to hide us, once again, the impenetrable night, and we veered off, far to the North, so far, low and fast we ran, hidden in the rising black, which rose, as air streamed, low and fast and filled with rain and dirt and leaves and the calling of one hawk, after another,

Unnatural calls,

Left us, drifted to the east, falling, to the south, as we felt our quarry, saw our quarry, his red cloak, shifting, over a body which thrashed, and moved, forever changing, forever melding with, some thought, mirroring the unsettled, within, of the mind which rode it, drove it, and it shifted, again, this time we saw,

A,

Buck. Grand. But faltering, as though confused, as though lost, before becoming the eagle, a thing huge, of crooked wing, but taking to flight, though we felt is, as, something more,

A black thing. Black presence. Heavy, the image of the eagle, of the buck, of the doe like creature, of the bear, of the dog, of the wolf, but images, worn,
Shown,
Revealed.

Not real.

This was its core, a man within?

We could sense it. See it, that red cloaked thing of flesh and blood,

But,

This was it. This black, force, moving through a rising dark, for, we saw now, it was always dark where it traveled, a thing more presence than real, images we saw, within ourselves, something shown, something,

Wished for.

By,

This,

Presence.

Which moved, which flowed, and streamed across, over, the landscape, leaving despair and doom, in its wake, a path which healed, slowly, healed, long after its passage, as though, awakening from dreams and restless sleep, remembered night fears, night, terrors, night, mares.

And we paused, high atop a rise, staring down below, in a valley dotted with standing stones. Mounds. Entrances built into excavated hills. Fallen stone all around. Over grown, abandoned, toppled, low, stone walls, and through this valley of ancient graves,

A single,

Man,

Moved, cloaked in this black, dark, presence of gloom.

We saw as blackness leaked out of its eyes, and a low, stone door, opened before it, and two, black flame, guttering, torches, sprang to life, within, before the darkness,
Swallowed,
It,
Up.