It was cold. It was wet. It was not Trill’s idea of a good way to start the day. Day’s should be started from a soft bed, under layers of blankets, nestled in fire-lit room with the proper serving staff at hand. She grimaced at the view from inside the hastily constructed lean-to, but knew better than to complain out loud. Her captors we’re already breaking down camp and it looked like breakfast was going to be cold jerky. Again. If she wasn’t rescued soon, she was going to have to take matters into her own hands.
|These snippits are copyright Martha McMahon Bechtel and may not be reproduced or distributed without express permission. All rights reserved.|
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