Winter Blues

Moonhawk tossed the fur blanket aside, strapped on her sword belt, slung her quiver and bow over her shoulder and strode out of the cave to greet the day. The day, like the rest of the camp, was apparently having a lie in; thick snow clouds, hanging low, blocked any hint of dawn’s arrival.

“Got another one,” a high pitched voice cried out.

Moonhawk followed the sound, after one brief, longing, glance at her bed. “What are you doing?” She asked, seeing two of the young civilians scrabbling about in the mud, completely oblivious to any enemies out there they were advertising the groups presence to.

“We’re collecting worms,” the youngest said, as though that explained everything. “For breakfast,” he added, seeing by Moon’s face, that it hadn’t.

“I…” Moonhawk stopped. These were humans, and humans ate strange things. Who was she to judge.

“He means we are going fishing…we don’t eat the worms, the fish do, then we eat the fish,” the other youth added, brandishing what looked like a broken bow with a bit of metal on the end of the loose string. “We put the worm on this spike, dangle it in the water for a while and when a fish tries to eat the worm we pull it out, embedding the spike in the fishes mouth. It’s fun.”

“Not for the worm and fish it’s not,” Moonhawk mumbled.

“Join us, it’ll not take a moment to covert your bow into a rod.”

“I would, but…I have to check the road ahead for…danger and things,” Moonhawk said hurriedly, her face white. Determined that next winter she would find a cabin and hole up. No favours for old friends, no civilians; just her, a log fire and her old nemesis boredom, who no longer seemed so bad.

(Word Count 300)