When Time Is Thin

Words: 1345
^^^Vocabulary up above ^^^

He had his wife craft the hood, the hood that covered his face and enabled him to move through the night without his face being seen. If it was, he'd be next Everard, chased through the woods with the deerskin strapped to his bare back with the very hounds Warner was required to watch over in a heated chase. The very hounds he was using tonight of the chase for his chance with god. Otherwise, he would be excommunicated, damned to an eternity in hell when he cannot pay the tithe he owned the church.

He worked in a smaller field near the south forest. His wife would often come out to help since the land was so vast, but she also had to look after the King's hounds and even spun in the corner of their dank room, so her time was sparse. This brought in more, but it would always go to the mouths of their children and out of the his hands and the church's.

"Warner?" A soft voice called, her hand gripping the leads on three canines, their ear perked and eyes alert, but remain obedient aside Warner's wife. The hound's were one of the most important part of the hunt, the lymer was used for his powerful nose and the terrier for pests, like foxes and rats, and finally she had a greyhound leashed, who was used for his speed and height. "Which hound did you want?"

His tired eyes moved passed the dogs, he'd never been trained in the art of hunting. Only the lord's men knew it, and he was prepared to poach, a crime punishable by death. He knew a man though in the lord's men that desired several beaver pelts for his wife's new evening gown, and tonight he was spending the little free time he has and track down the beaver. He should be receiving enough coins to pay his debt and catch up to himself, for the beaver's pelt could be one of the most sought after fur.

"The terrier." He starred the dog's beady black eyes and his wiry fur. The greyhound was of much too much value. He was hoping that the terrier could replace the tens of hounds that are generally used during the par force. In this form of hunting, he'd set the hounds to tire the prey and then make the kill once the opportunity arouse and kill the prey with a weapon similar to a sword or axe. If he was of higher authority, he'd attempt the bow and stable hunt, but his wages couldn't ever afford the horse to do so.

His wife release the terrier into his palm, the leather strap light and stiff. A lump formed in his throat as he thought of what this could bring. Trapping the rodent would be easier, but he needs to be in and out of there quickly. Snaring took to long, and someone may even come across it and take the pelt for himself.

The thought of facing the creature gave him a little fright, though. The tale of the castor, when the beaver would castrate itself, throwing it's testicles at the hunter. Most give up, as they only sought the large rodent for their testicles that could be used for medicine.

He headed out as dawn touched the sky. The terrier was tucked to his chest as he ran through the streets, hoping that ever soul was still at rest.

The forest was lush, the settling of a newborn spring sweeping over. Last minute owls swooped towards the small rodents scurrying and the songbirds that guard their nests, it's hoots piercing the crisp air He could see the previous tracks of the knights, which could often be a popular training technique through tracking, horsemanship and weapon usage. He wanted to avoid their tracks, as they looked fresh and upturned, but the river was in the direction they had gone.

Warner let the terrier down, and his nose dug straight into the mud, which Warner nervously tried to tug the dog out of it. Leaving tracks was the last thing he wanted at the moment, eyes fleeting over the shrubbery. He shoulders were tense, his free hand gripping the side of his tunic nervously, the course material scratching at his palm. As he walked, he kept an eye out for the spear he had carved.

The trees flew by quickly as he ran, his leather shoes thunking on the brush left on the ground from the last winter. The river was approaching quickly, the gentle trickle could be heard over the soft breeze. He nerves started to simmer down when he noticed the horse tracks veer away to run parallel to the river. They must have became their chase, the tracks becoming sloppier than before.

He soon release the smaller white dog, a color that was common amongst the upper class, and watching at the small canine ran straight into the churning water, pursuing after a beaver that was previously clamping it's teeth over a gnarly branch. He knew how to hunt the otter, Everard had told him the tales of when he had witnessed it. If the beaver was anything alike, the terrier should be able to chase the beaver downstream, towards him where he'd attempt to spear it. He felt a little upset that he could not have gotten to it while it was on land and caught it's loping body than.

The one that he now faced was a good size, it had to have been around 3 feet or more of length. There was also another that swam already in the water, but instead of fleeing downstream, he watched as she headed straight towards the dog before ducking into the water. The larger one, the male, followed, and neither resurfaced. He waited for a moment, and then another, but nothing happened.

He approached the pile of sticks and mud where the dog dug at, yipping and slapping his paws against the stable den. He began to wade through the murky water, the sharpened wooden spear in hand while he observed the den. He was unsure how to break into it without losing the valued pelt he was after. Warner took a few steps back and tested the lengths he could move away and still reach it.

Not far, he though. Nonetheless, he still positioned his spear at the base of the den and wiggled it around.

It didn't budge much.

He applied more force, putting his weight on top of it and was satisfied to hear the rodent squealing in panic at the home's sides began to melt away a branch at a time. The terrier yipped and howled, he scrambled over the twigs and sticks and dug in excitement.

Before the lodge could completely crumble, however, he heard the thunking of heavy hooves hitting the ground. The were coming. Fear struck him and he abandoned his project and started towards the opposite shore in attempt of fleeing. He knew it was too late though, his sopping wet shoes squelching as he attempted to scamper away. He could hear the panting hounds, however, already on his tail and the men's yells. His mind continued to reel, this was such a sudden event

It was all fun and games as the the canine's teeth nipped at his calves and tore at his tunic. It was the thrill of the chase for them. They fun only lasted at long at his stamina and the length that his feet would support him. It wasn't long before his feet were no longer underneath of him. He groaned, rolling onto his back to free his hands in attempt to fight the chewing dogs away. He was only met with the emotionless eyes of the lord, though.

"Prepare the gallows," Lord Dietrich instructed.

The hounds were called away and Warner's worn body lifted off the ground. As the men lifted him, they pulled his hood off of his face and the lord chuckled.

"Warner, you were due for death anyhow."

It's not suppose to be very good, but it was a project for history that I wanted to do something with. Maybe get a feel on how my writing sounds?
So if anyone read, please leave a comment on the quality, just one honest word like : good, bad, fair, needs improvement...ECT.