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It was a dark day in Gilmertyn. The storm clouds waged war with the sun, forcing it back past the ancient wall and into the forests of Scotland. The rain beat down the grass, sounding the drumming of an army. All who lived in Gilmertyn had long since fled, back to their bluestone hoses and stores. Women skittered from alcove to alcove, gripping their skirts with one hand and black umberellas in the other while men huddles inside their heavy overcoats. Street lamps flickered like dying will-o-the-wisp, their protective casings infiltrated by trickles of water. Few dared tread the roads beyond the main street. The only people about were those forced by circumstance, those too foolish to forecast... and Mister Andres Fionnlagh Niall Brackenstone. It truly was a dark day for Gilmertyn.

 

Mister Andres Fionnlagh Niall Brackenstone wore very little compared to those in the small village, which sat in a bluestone lump against Hadrian's Wall. Anyone noticing him would be shocked to see a man trudging alongside the road in such weather, let alone in a white shirt, red suspenders, striped trousers and sodden sky-blue socks. He wore no vest, no coat and there wasn't an accessory to his personage. That was, however, supposing anyone could see him through the drumming rain. The poor creature clung to his shirt and shivered to his socks. There was a great, ugly bruise across his cheek and a split across his lip. When he finally managed to flag down a coachman, he certainly had a wild tale to tell.

 

'You look like death!' the coachman cried, hurrying the poor sod into the front seat. He could not allow the young man into the coach but he could certainly offer the shelter the front coachman's seat offered.

 

'I feel like it,' chuckled Mister Brackenstone. The sodden creature gave a shiver and wiped the dribble from his nose. 'Thank you, kind Sir. I've been walking for a good eighty minutes now.'

 

'Eighty minutes!' the coachman exlaimed. 'Has nobody stopped for you?'

 

The man was shocked! For a few moments he looked stunned at this pale, shivering man as though such a thing ought to be impossible.

 

'I'm afraid not, Sir. The last coach splashed me up past me elbows, the one before that was the one who brought me to this unfortunate situation,' he said. 'Please, we haven't properly introduced yet. The name's Brackenstone, Andres Brackenstone.'

 

'Chamberlain, Doughal Chamberlain. I'm run the coach service along the Wall,' the coachman replied. He glanced down at the hand he was shaking. It was as cold as death! They'd better hurry or Mister Brackenstone would catch his death before he arrived.

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