It's National Novel Writing Month time.
I managed to write 325 words yesterday.
I'm so screwed.
Gwyr wiped his palms across his tunic again, leaving the chill sweat on the already damp cloth. The water of the estuary was flat, the tide was low and the mud looked thick and grey in the dim light. The fog was only starting to clear up, lifting from the beach and letting a little bit of the morning sun start to peak through. The reeds and small crooked trees that poked up here and there amongst the tidal mud looked sullen and toxic. The trail he was standing on took a crooked path across those humps of firmer soil and along side of the stream of water that was flowing sluggishly out to sea. He could hear the small, lapping sounds of the waves at his back as he looked upstream where the trail disappeared behind a larger hummock of grass covered mud than most. Gwyr scuffed his boot at the dull saucer sized black scale lying in the dirt before him. A few more were now visible littering the trail. He patted the flank of the scrawny horse he had been issued two days before without looking at it, and looked down at the two strings in his hand that he pulled from the bottom of his rather empty purse. The light was good enough to distinguish the blue thread from the black. It was time.
Sighing, he turned and made a final check on the line he had secured to the horse’s bridle. It would be a real annoyance to come back and find that it had wandered off. Even if it was nearly ready to be butchered and fed to the dogs, it still beat walking back to the city. He snorted to himself.
Assuming he would make it back alive and in a state to remount his horse was remarkably optimistic.
How the hell had I ever gotten myself into this mess in the first place, he wondered to himself.