Serial Storytelling, in Paragraph Proportions - Fragment 6

Instead he moves to face the wall and tepid trickle of water, ruefully gnawing at the crust of his last black-seed cake. Trying to remember how many days had receded since his descent into the Shallows. 

He regrets not pocketing the locket-clock in his haste. In the Below, where neither sun, nor moon, nor star give meaning to a travelers progress, a time-piece is useful, if not indispensable.

Perhaps I might fetch you a rat, or a little mouse, instead of that...

It said with a tender wryness, unseen as he peered at the wrinkled and pebbly stone-work. The voice retreating into the distance on the softness of bare footfalls.

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