Setting the scene

From a prompt:

This wasn’t the country he was familiar with. The hills shot up like knives and the air was crisp…

The cliffs fell two hundred feet where they met the sea. Jeremiah sat up close to the edge. He pushed himself back like the cliff wanted to eat him. There were few birds in the air and snow melted in pockets. Jeremiah’s expression went from confused to worried. He patted himself, searching the fur coat for his belongings. Sword: gone. Food: gone. Water: gone. He reached into his right boot. Knife: still there.

Jeremiah looked behind him towards a dirt path, worn through the years. Standing up, he headed towards the path, leading into a woodline. The trees guarded the path, but Jeremiah paid no heed. He marched onward towards the only route he could go. These woods, unfamiliar, bore a small resemblance to those of his childhood. Yet, they were new and Jeremiah felt a small pinch of fear. He shook it off and started to jog.

Jeremiah had very little idea of why he was where he was. But he certainly knew who brought him here. Left him here, more like it. Ahead, Jeremiah saw a sign confirming his suspicions. Two sticks were crossed. To any passerbyer, it’s a curiosity. But Jeremiah knew it as a signal for the Horn Clan. Jeremiah chuckled for a moment.

“I suppose that’s my reward for getting half of ’em killed.”

Behind him, Jeremiah heard rustling. Something snapped. Jeremiah turned quickly, just as a burly Spaniard brought down a club. Jeremiah swirled as if in a dance, dodging the big man’s approaching club. The Spaniard wasn’t as slow as Jeremiah expected, recovering and heaving the club high in the air. Jeremiah hooked a loose punch into the man’s gut and backed off, trying to make space.

Stepping forward, the Spaniard annulled Jeremiah’s move. The beast of a man swung his club again, missing once more. Jeremiah pulled his throwing knife from a boot. He pushed it into his opponent’s leg. The man yowled, yanked out the knife, and grabbed at Jeremiah.

“Come ‘ere!” The Spaniard demanded.

“How ’bout I leave instead?” Jeremiah offered.

The Spaniard lunged. Jeremiah side stepped, tripping the Spaniard. Jeremiah didn’t lose time, leaping onto the man’s back. Jeremiah pounded the man’s head, delivering several blows. The Spaniard aimlessly swung his knife hand back at Jeremiah. Jeremiah grabbed the club arm. The Spaniard held on strong. Jeremiah tickled his armpit.

“Son of a bitch!” The Spaniard groaned.

The club fell out of his hand and into Jeremiah’s. Jeremiah smashed hard onto the man’s head. The Spaniard went limp. The knife fell onto the ground, Jeremiah picking it up swiftly.

“Now to find my sword and figure out where the hell I am,” Jeremiah said.

Published by Nick Bucci

Videographer. Photographer. Writer.

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