Chapter 28: Harthos
It was a tranquil, unwavering amber-orange, evocative of late August, just before sunset, yet it possessed an odd permanence, refusing to shift or fade
(This artwork started out as a coloured pencil drawing on Bristol Board paper, then I got angry at it and took a photo of it and transported it in Procreate, where I gleefully eradicated all the irritating details with the oil paint brush, which is what you see here - Chaiga T. Cheska)
Bran was deposited into a bramble bush with remarkable swiftness and scant regard for dignity, a tumble so abrupt that it left little opportunity for grace.
His arms flung out in a futile attempt to steady himself; this manoeuvre succeeded only in ensuring his forearms met the thorns first. The bramble bush, as if anticipating his arrival, seized him with unrestrained enthusiasm. Bran yelped, twisting against the sharp tangle, feeling one thorn graze his cheek whilst several more made themselves known, one clutching at his collar, another snagging his sleeve, and a third landing in a spot so uncomfortable it elicited a different sort of cry altogether. With the frantic urgency of one beset by an obstinate adversary, he scrambled upright, grappling with the brambles that grasped and refused to let go.
“OW,” he yelped, to the bramble bush. “ow, ow, OW!”
He lunged forward, only to find the vine at his ankle constricting with abrupt determination. The sudden resistance sent him stumbling; his hand reached instinctively for a branch to steady himself, but this too turned out to be adorned with thorns. “Ow! For goodness’ sake…” he exclaimed, frustration punctuating his words as he grappled with the bramble’s persistent hostility.
