The Flying Wind, Part 2

The Flying Wind, Pt 1

Another crack, this one louder and echoing. Timbers creaked. Eyes wide, Wim dashed up the mine. He nearly impaled his left shoulder with his pickaxe in a frenzied rush. Behind him, lumber snapped and rock roared into the shaft.

The Stitched RealmsA.N. Sorensen

The ringing of hammer on metal echoed through the village, over the crumbling thatch and cracked daub of the mostly abandoned western half of Thimblecross. Wim, like many other townsfolk, had moved towards the eastern hills, where there was strength in numbers and distance from the woods and the Black Castle.

Milo, the rat, carried Wim and the cart to the Rattlepot house, but only after Wim bribed him with some hard cheese from the inn. Wim's home was a generous cottage roughly quartered with a day room, an evening room, a kitchen and a workshop, and behind the house hunched a stable for Milo. Wim had fixed it up after another large family had left, the place a better fit for his gaggle of boys and two girls. As part of the fixing, Wim had set a couple of small flower boxes beneath their small windows, and cajoled Milo into plowing the backyard. Marrow Rattlepot had exclaimed that it was pretty as a Goosefoot house when they first moved in. Now—

"Wim? Is that you? Well, come in and tell me what went wrong after you stable that filthy beast."