He tucks himself into the large bed. All the candles blown out. Moonlight oozes into the room. He listens. The whistle of the wind at this altitude. The distant hammering of the daemons hundreds of spans below him. The charge against the great glyphs of the wall and are repelled ceaselessly, day and night. They pour in from the great wastes beyond, where no man dare tread. It is only here, at this great bulwark, that they are held back from ravaging the world of men. If he were to face one, it would tear him apart before he could so much as draw his sword. And yet, he cannot sleep without hearing them scream. Something about being suspended above the foremost danger of mankind gives him a strange comfort. At any moment, the wall might break, or the glyphs fail, and he and all the other guardians would meet their doom. But it has held for a thousand years and will hold for the next thousand. Or at least until the next dawn. He feels himself slipping into slumber, as the hordes of hell unleash their muffled fury far below.
Paddy Dobson
15th September 2021