Post by Hiram Cooper on Oct 30, 2009 1:52:34 GMT -6
Reds and oranges spilled across the prairies like a pool of blood, slowly creeping ever and ever outward. There was the low sound of cattle calling to one another, and the smell of fresh coffee brewing. Hiram was dressed and wide awake, eyes fixed on the sun rising over the great mountains. You couldn't start at it for too long, so he watched it out of the corner of his eye, turning to look at the colours instead of straight at the bright disc.
His mind was sharp and bright, the way it always was when he had work to keep his hands busy. He'd already written a few new songs. When he had enough, Hiram would head into town, record it, and put it out onto the Network. He didn't make much money off it, but he made enough to afford the studio fees, and his walkabouts in the wilderness. Hiram had no desire to preform for anyone, and no great dreams of fame. He just simply liked to tell stories, and this seemed the best way to tell them.
Other men were waking up, moving about inside the bunkhouse. Hiram didn't much care. He was headed away from the rest, out to the far fences where the dragons came. Hiram hadn't seen any yet. The mermaid oil on his boots was working. But there had been other things. Goblins mostly. A few well-placed shots had convinced them to find easy pickings, leaving their dead to mummify in the desert heat. When he wasn't watching for dragons, he repaired the fences. They were in good condition, but maintenance would keep them in good condition longer than ignoring them would. Shaw was the sort of fellow who clearly believed in prevention, not reaction.
It was a pretty sunrise. But Hiram had seen prettier, and he knew in his heart, the best was still yet to come. If he waited around long enough, it would show up one of these days. Maybe the day his mind stopped fuzzing out, the day his wanderlust and bloodlust both died away.
He leaned against the bunkhouse and kept his eyes on the shifting shadows, and the pooling heat and colours.
His mind was sharp and bright, the way it always was when he had work to keep his hands busy. He'd already written a few new songs. When he had enough, Hiram would head into town, record it, and put it out onto the Network. He didn't make much money off it, but he made enough to afford the studio fees, and his walkabouts in the wilderness. Hiram had no desire to preform for anyone, and no great dreams of fame. He just simply liked to tell stories, and this seemed the best way to tell them.
Other men were waking up, moving about inside the bunkhouse. Hiram didn't much care. He was headed away from the rest, out to the far fences where the dragons came. Hiram hadn't seen any yet. The mermaid oil on his boots was working. But there had been other things. Goblins mostly. A few well-placed shots had convinced them to find easy pickings, leaving their dead to mummify in the desert heat. When he wasn't watching for dragons, he repaired the fences. They were in good condition, but maintenance would keep them in good condition longer than ignoring them would. Shaw was the sort of fellow who clearly believed in prevention, not reaction.
It was a pretty sunrise. But Hiram had seen prettier, and he knew in his heart, the best was still yet to come. If he waited around long enough, it would show up one of these days. Maybe the day his mind stopped fuzzing out, the day his wanderlust and bloodlust both died away.
He leaned against the bunkhouse and kept his eyes on the shifting shadows, and the pooling heat and colours.
