The land is black and, above it, the sky is a gradient of pink into orange into yellow into blue and back down to black somewhere behind him. The wind picks up and blows straight through his armour. Good for blunting northman arrows, doesn't do much against the prevailing chill of this misty land. He leans closer to the torch beside him, and scowls back at the tower to his right. From its windows, he sees the flicker of a roaring brazier and hears the peal of merry laughter. But the walls won't watch themselves.
Not that there is much to see. The details of the terrain have long since merged into one long silhouette. How is he supposed to see the northmen in this? Probably he is supposed to hear them. Or smell them. He doesn't know, because he's never been close to them.
He's seen a cohort go beyond the gates that he guards, and come back significantly reduced. Shields dented. Armour unwound. Their faces hollowed. Cheeks unshaved. Covered in dried mud and blood. Carrying their dead between their shoulders. The confident march that left the wall comes back as a dragging slog.
With these memories coming back to him now, guarding the wall doesn't seem quite the bore it was a few moments ago. He stands straight and strains his hearing. He wants to die old and fat in the baking sun of his homeland, not in some bog at the end of nowhere.
Paddy Dobson
17th September 2020