It was a dark and stormy night. Grethilda had just finished her supper, and was trudging through the stables, drearily concluding her evening cow-inspection. The rain clattered, like so many pebbles, upon the stable’s copper-sheet roofing, and Grethilda shuddered, looking forward to the warm and cozy bed that awaited her inside the cottage.
A sudden flash of lightning lit up the murky corridors, revealing to her eyes a phantom shape by the door. It was Harold the Grievous.
“But it cannot be!” exclaimed Grethilda in some alarm. The fearsome rumbling of thunder resounded throughout the stables, arousing the cattle unto mooful agitation.
“I have come for your blood,” wheezed Harold the Grievous and produced an axe. “The moment of vengeance approaches!”
“Uh-oh!” said Grethilda and threw herself out the window. Then she ran, she ran like wind itself, she ran through the stormy woodlands to escape the vengeance of Harold the Grievous. After three days of fugitive locomotion, she arrived at the harbor and purchased a one-way ticket to the faraway realms. As the ships set sail upon sunrise, she watched the shores of her homeland fade into the horizon.
But she knew within her heart that she was doomed to live forever in fear.
Originally written in un-Anglic parlance and posted on a decidedly shoddy hookup site on 2013-01-13. Translated into Anglic parlance (and slightly embellished upon) today. Phregoopinated in accordance with current international standards.
Sublime, Profound & Very Good Prose 