Miggan was not wont to wander too far from her cave lair, especially not when wandering meant going anywhere near the Valley of Long Rocks. The valley was not dangerous in itself and its inhabitants, the enigmatic Frongolites, were usually only to be seen flitting across the surface of the rock face in bursts of high-pitched activity.They were perfectly harmless, it wasn't anything in the valley that bothered her.

" No, no , that's not right, no it's not" she muttered to herself " much furthur on now and I'll topple into the dirty long valley now , no, no - that's not right. It's dirty. Careful now, ..."

She fumbled on slowly through the thick wet grass. It wasn't raining and the air had a keen, minty scent that Migan was, of course, oblivious to as her long pipe of a nose worked the air for the whiff of dead animals, poking the air and making short sniffling noises.

She heard them first. A low heaving through the grass, quick tinkling noises , and then sticky breathing. When the damp stench of shaggy Pikhorn carrier beasts had covered her like a fog they were already upon her -

"Get away now smelly you, dirty you! Away now!" She yelped.

The pale pinkish Grunts in the pockmarked black uniforms of Lord Burnside of The Hurt chuckled down at her from their knotted Pikhorn saddles - empty steel cages tinkling along with their laughter. One of them said something to her in heavily accented Wryish.

"Get away now smelly, dirty you!" She said . The same Grunt spoke again, licking his fingers and smoothing his thin, sickly white hair. He was easier to understand this time.

This story extract is from a Wryüish Tale, part of the projected adventure story Escape to Wryüland. For furthur information please write to info@donalcasey.com or click here .

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............................................. © Donal Casey 2003 All rights reserved