Following the great feedback received earlier in the week, I've taken another look at this and shortened it by 10%. I'd love to know what you think.
***
Standing alone on the side of a small hill was a modest, wooden house, all on one floor with a number of chimneys sprouting haphazardly from the roof. The hodgepodge of repairs and improvements made over the years gave it the look of a giant, angular patchwork quilt.
The inside was in keeping with the outside, everything tired and worn from decades of use, mended many times but just the right side of broken to be useful. It had a well-loved warm and cosy feel, the type of place that might have been witness to a lifetime of afternoon naps.
Oil lamps lit up the interior with a warm glow as Sarrien Benwick paced up and down, stroking his short grey beard. Oblivious to the dying embers in the fireplace, he walked up the incline to the far wall, stopping short of the trunk sitting at its foot, turned round and walked back. Reaching his favourite chair next to the fireplace, he sat down, stood up and walked back up the slope again.
‘Something wrong husband dear?’ asked Amelda from the kitchen on the far side of the room.
‘Hmmm…’
‘Sarri?’
‘Oh it’s nothing, nothing.’
She looked up from beating her cake mixture in a clay bowl cradled in her arm, yellow glazing flaked off the outside. ‘Nothing? You’ve been restless ever since you got back from the Sanctum.’
Sarrien finally noticed the fire was out, threw a couple of logs onto the hot embers and started prodding at them with a poker. ‘Well nothing much anyway.’
Amelda stopped her beating, ‘Is it this big storm coming? Is that what’s bothering you?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you but an inspector has turned up, unexpected and uninvited. She was at the Sanctum earlier.’
‘From Phaerox? What for?’
‘Yes from our illustrious capital, a Miss Osfelia Ribbal. As to what she’s here for, I’m not entirely sure, she has been less than forthcoming,’ he said shifting his weight over to one side.
‘They’re not due a visit to the academy are they?’ Amelda resumed her onslaught on the cake mixture with a well-practised rhythm.
Sarrien scowled ‘No they’re not. They persist in questioning what we do here.’
‘Maybe she’s interested.’
‘I doubt it. They won’t be happy until I’m gone and they can wipe the past away as though it never happened,’ he said with a shake of his head that ruffled his shaggy hair.
‘It can’t be helped now, we’ll just have to hope for the best. Now then, that ought to do it.’ Amelda half poured, half spooned the mixture into a blackened baking tin.
‘How far will hope get us? If history is our teacher, it won’t be enough. Anyway, I must get back over there and make sure the academy is prepared for the storm.’
Sarrien put on his hedgal-hide coat and sat carefully on a rickety stool to put his boots on. ‘Well at least we haven’t seen any Storm Warners’ he said grabbing his staff from its place next to the door, his hand resting comfortably on the grooved grip. It was scuffed, scratched and what looked like teeth marks were gouged out of the wood; the scars of a long partnership.
‘I may watch the storm from one of the towers so I could be a while.’
‘I know. Be careful.’ Amelda, still holding her spoon, gave him a lopsided hug as she tried not to cover him in cake mixture, before Sarrien slid back the heavy bolt and stepped outside, letting in a blast of cold air.
He put his hood up and pulled it tight around his face to shield himself from the powerful wind. Making his way north, up the stony path that wound its way through the rolling, green grounds of the academy, Sarrien’s limp was less noticeable as he leaned into the wind.
After several minutes the outline of the Sanctum rose into sight, deceptively diminutive against the cliffs behind. Silhouetted against the backdrop a tall, slender figure further up the path headed in his direction. The figure was closing fast, moving with an unnatural ease, seemingly unaffected by its battle with the wind.
Sarrien progressed more slowly, heart quickening a beat as he gripped his staff a little tighter. The figure continued to move purposefully towards him, its face bound up against the gales. With only a few strides between them, Sarrien stopped and almost imperceptibly moved into a stance. The figure didn’t falter.
***
Standing alone on the side of a small hill was a modest, wooden house, all on one floor with a number of chimneys sprouting haphazardly from the roof. The hodgepodge of repairs and improvements made over the years gave it the look of a giant, angular patchwork quilt.
The inside was in keeping with the outside, everything tired and worn from decades of use, mended many times but just the right side of broken to be useful. It had a well-loved warm and cosy feel, the type of place that might have been witness to a lifetime of afternoon naps.
Oil lamps lit up the interior with a warm glow as Sarrien Benwick paced up and down, stroking his short grey beard. Oblivious to the dying embers in the fireplace, he walked up the incline to the far wall, stopping short of the trunk sitting at its foot, turned round and walked back. Reaching his favourite chair next to the fireplace, he sat down, stood up and walked back up the slope again.
‘Something wrong husband dear?’ asked Amelda from the kitchen on the far side of the room.
‘Hmmm…’
‘Sarri?’
‘Oh it’s nothing, nothing.’
She looked up from beating her cake mixture in a clay bowl cradled in her arm, yellow glazing flaked off the outside. ‘Nothing? You’ve been restless ever since you got back from the Sanctum.’
Sarrien finally noticed the fire was out, threw a couple of logs onto the hot embers and started prodding at them with a poker. ‘Well nothing much anyway.’
Amelda stopped her beating, ‘Is it this big storm coming? Is that what’s bothering you?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you but an inspector has turned up, unexpected and uninvited. She was at the Sanctum earlier.’
‘From Phaerox? What for?’
‘Yes from our illustrious capital, a Miss Osfelia Ribbal. As to what she’s here for, I’m not entirely sure, she has been less than forthcoming,’ he said shifting his weight over to one side.
‘They’re not due a visit to the academy are they?’ Amelda resumed her onslaught on the cake mixture with a well-practised rhythm.
Sarrien scowled ‘No they’re not. They persist in questioning what we do here.’
‘Maybe she’s interested.’
‘I doubt it. They won’t be happy until I’m gone and they can wipe the past away as though it never happened,’ he said with a shake of his head that ruffled his shaggy hair.
‘It can’t be helped now, we’ll just have to hope for the best. Now then, that ought to do it.’ Amelda half poured, half spooned the mixture into a blackened baking tin.
‘How far will hope get us? If history is our teacher, it won’t be enough. Anyway, I must get back over there and make sure the academy is prepared for the storm.’
Sarrien put on his hedgal-hide coat and sat carefully on a rickety stool to put his boots on. ‘Well at least we haven’t seen any Storm Warners’ he said grabbing his staff from its place next to the door, his hand resting comfortably on the grooved grip. It was scuffed, scratched and what looked like teeth marks were gouged out of the wood; the scars of a long partnership.
‘I may watch the storm from one of the towers so I could be a while.’
‘I know. Be careful.’ Amelda, still holding her spoon, gave him a lopsided hug as she tried not to cover him in cake mixture, before Sarrien slid back the heavy bolt and stepped outside, letting in a blast of cold air.
He put his hood up and pulled it tight around his face to shield himself from the powerful wind. Making his way north, up the stony path that wound its way through the rolling, green grounds of the academy, Sarrien’s limp was less noticeable as he leaned into the wind.
After several minutes the outline of the Sanctum rose into sight, deceptively diminutive against the cliffs behind. Silhouetted against the backdrop a tall, slender figure further up the path headed in his direction. The figure was closing fast, moving with an unnatural ease, seemingly unaffected by its battle with the wind.
Sarrien progressed more slowly, heart quickening a beat as he gripped his staff a little tighter. The figure continued to move purposefully towards him, its face bound up against the gales. With only a few strides between them, Sarrien stopped and almost imperceptibly moved into a stance. The figure didn’t falter.