After The Snowstorm In The Forest. (Photo credit: Denis Collette.)
The stinging is like a hundred small knights charging into my face with their lances. I can hear others smash against the trees though the stems are only slightly blacker shadows in the dark. I am being half throttled by the old sweat and wood smoke from my scarf, but it is better than being chocked by the wind. I pull my hood further down and struggle forwards, barely able to see the ground in front of me.
If I had had a horse, I might have risked huddling close to it and waiting for the storm to pass, but I have no horse and my fingers and toes have gone numb.
There should be an inn close by. I remember stopping there a couple of years back. The giggling Ploughman it was called. A ridiculous name, but it was warm and light.
The stinging stops and I wonder how the hail could cease so suddenly. I blink and then I see the light between the trees. I jog towards it and it is all warm and soft, so I close my eyes.
A Bolg? 