Written for the following prompt:
He was frozen, but he would not desert his post, for somewhere out there, they hunted. Fresh meat, that was the term the others had used to suggest the likely outcome if they were defeated. What he didn’t want to know was how they’d been altered by their exposure to the tin mines, the bill the king had signed had been suggestive enough.
Easing back from the slitted window he suppressed a shiver, his imagination didn’t need to be in receipt of any further details, he would do his duty, or he would die.
Leaning over he let his pencil touch the paper, unsurprised when it began to draw a swampy moss ridden creek he knew was just out of sight.
He was the artist, he saw all before anyone else.