Wednesday, 25 November 2009

Morning on the Marches

I woke up this morning, my woman was dead my houseplant had left the booze had run out from a long and rambling dream, strangely combining the merry shenanigans of my kinsfolk with Terry Pratchett's dark Discworld literature and Fyodor Dostoevsky's classic romp The Idiot.

Pointedly refusing to interpret the above, I found myself oddly refreshed, and over my sultana bran finally settled down to take up the tale of Killer-Kate and Luke Lackland where I'd left it off all those months ago. Where I'd left it off in waking life, this time, as opposed to in my dreams...

They have spent their last night in the desolate woods with their arms full of dry leaves, and old Kate has played chanticleer to their personal doomsday, her face and fierce eyes burning with the fires of a red-gold dawn. I have risen up with Luke to join her, and we are all heading for the Featherhowe again - and for other things they less suspect.

It's good to be back!

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