benson boone ghost town

A tightly wrapped pea-coat. A popped collar. A hat pulled low. Fumbling for keys as the rain pelts leather back. Left- right- breast- rear! As deftly closed as it was opened, the door swings silently shut. Hat, Coat, Keys, Quiet. Only the pitter, pitter, pitter, pat out of doors and footsteps. One, two, three steps down. The familiar smell of dust and age-old pages. A nook by the high window and cushions abound. Waking soon gives way to sleep at the hands of a good book. Dreaming. Fields of hay and mushrooms. Cottages with stout chimneys. Forests, rivers, and… awake again. No… Not wake. This is not the corner host to so many long days and late nights. Pat, pat, pat… skitter. Pillows and rain has given way to meticulously hewn stones and stale air.

“Awake at last.” A mere whisper amplified so many scores by church walls. Deafening.

Whiskers like hay. A nose akin to caps from so many stews before. Homely and stout, smoking a cigar like a stovepipe. Forest green eyes sparkling as lively as a bubbling brook.

“Welcome finally, traveler, to Fel’Arthia!”