erastes

Sadly, unless I get a mad productive spurt on at the weekend, but I'm not too depressed. I have progressed Transgressions further than I ever thought possible this month - have got both sets of boys into a brand new predicament, with new characters and new challenges, and I've written 32K in a month, and thats something to be very proud of. AFter all the book is a fucking monster. It was over 80K when I started Nano, and is now over 100K, and is still only about half done. Standish was only 97K after all, and was all finished. neat and tidy.

For those who are interested, Jonathan and Michael are now heading to Mistley, which is in central Essex, south of the River Stour which was a busy port, due to it's position - although a tiny town. Hopkins was born near there, and did live at the Thorn Inn for a couple of years.

They sat in silence for a long while after that, as the light began to fade a smell Jonathan had only smelled once in his life before began to be overpowering.

"It's near the sea?" He asked, he had only seen the sea once, when the regiment had camped at Lyme Regis but it had startled him to find he was so close and he had longed to see it again. The sounds of the gulls and yet unknown seabirds going to their roosts stirred his blood.

"Not really, it's a river, the Inn is on the Quay, but the sea is no distance at all, really," Michael smiled at the way Jonathan was peering forward, eager to catch a glimpse of the water. "What do you see, Jonathan?" he asked, his eyes questing and masterful, Jonathan recognised the tone of voice and answered swiftly,

"I see… fog," he ventured, knowing how this was a stupid answer, but it was what he felt, for although he could not see fog, the landscape, in fact the very future suddenly seemed shrouded in a white low lying mist that seemed cold and evil to him. He shivered, "It seems, to me that is," he said, looking pleadingly at Michael for comprehension, "that the landscape is a disguise for something else, I … know how impossible that sounds…" he added lamely.

"You answered," Michael said, touching his hand with a casual familiarity that meant so much to Jonathan, "and it might be nonsense or you might think so, but it was from the heart. This is a strange county and it has more legends and evil associated with it than any other. But this," he said, as they coach eventually stopped outside an inn, sat back from the Quayside, "is where we gather our forces against it. The Thorn."

Jonathan glanced to where the quay was, the land dropping away into the black river. The mist from the river was creeping across the road from the water in a ground-blanketing sheet with ragged edges like rotted questing fingers, and Jonathan shuddered and clutched the crucifix he wore around his neck.

Michael followed his gaze. "Horrible isn't it? The fogs here chill my very soul," he said, "let's go in." Jonathan had never been so glad to be out of the dark in his life. The sight of that unearthly fog, the like of which he'd never seen before had unnerved him, he was more than happy to occupy himself helping carry the luggage to the rooms and then join the others in the bar.