Serial Storytelling, in Paragraph Proportions - Fragment 13

Umin shook his woolly head to clear out the lingering rattle in his brain-box, before gingerly padding forward.

The faint fire-gleam grew achingly in breadth and height.

No longer a mere pricking but a diffuse, dancing turmeric pushing at the weight of the engirding vault.

Here the dread turns his feet to leaden clods, stopping him a few paces short of the ring of tepid fire light.

It stood there, before a broad, brassy kettle.

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