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October 14, 2019 - 240 words
Cold night in the Madman’s Mountains. The moon shone like the Catcher’s beacon, white and cold and fierce. Clouds crept in from the northwest. Glen huddled in front of a clicking fire, rubbing his hands together for warmth and gettin’ hisself all a-shiver. What was he doin’ out here in the night again? These Madman’s Mountains made ya think all manner of wild thoughts.
Glen cocked his ears and held perfectly still. He was listening for the signals. Every docket or two some windy man would come hustlin’ through these high passes, or so it seemed. Glen didn’t know for sure. He was just hopin’ to find one and then get ‘er goin’ on in where the goin’ was gotten.
He chuckled and resumed warming himself by the fire, checked to make sure his knife was still nicely laid out on the rocks there, glinting like some giant Abraxxe’s pearl. All that wind above him howled and hoooed and haawawawwaw’d endlessly, makin’ him think some madman really WAS flyin’ about.
The slow torches of Gilba Gilba were lost from view as Glen was camped above some misty cloud layer o’ some sort. Folk seldom came into these passes in the Madman’s Mountains; nobody had a reason to, leastways nobody had an HONEST reason to which brings us over to Glen here. Ol’ Glenny Blomgrin, what’s he doin’ up here in the Madman Mountains on multiple occasions, listenin’ for some signals?