He set the broth on the ledge and took a step out into the storm.
He blinked hard once then twice to clear his failing eyes. The
light was out and yet.he could still see the flickering, yellow
flow of its existence in the narrow arrow loop on the tower's next
higher level. Then the torch was back.full and strong.if
beleaguered by the gusts. Then again it was out. He stepped further
into the maelstrom.and stared.and wished for better eyes. He could
make no sense of it. It was queer. He resigned himself to cross the
wall's expanse and properly investigate.then a shiver ran through
him thoroughly like a bolt of lightning.ice cold lightning. He
wiped furiously at the freezing rain that blurred his eyes. It was
not the torch. It was something else.between the torch and
him.blocking the light. It was something.else. Something big.and
looming bigger. Something moving.and moving toward him He turned to
go back for his spear.but he never made it. There was little
difference between death and the night. Except.that death felt a
little warmer.
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