What follows is offered in response to Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. The challenge, this week, is "Pacing".
The forest was quiet, damp and dank beyond the light from the fire, which was slowly dying to embers.
"This night be chill, M'Lord. Shall I fetch more wood?"
"No. Stay near the fire, Swanson. I will gather such wood as we need myself. Better I should do so than maintain this infernal pacing."
"As you wish, M'Lord."
"I find this place depressing, Swanson. I thought I would find peace here, but all I find amplifies my fears."
There was a long pause. A silence.
"On the morrow, Swanson ... on the bloody morrow ... I will win her hand ... or die."