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Before the day was fully over, Porter found himself leaning out the window of his cell and watching the sun set over the forest below and the ocean beyond the village. The usual azure seas were tinted an inky navy beyond the fringes of the horizon, and the sky was painted with orange and salmon red from the summer sun. Few clouds heeded his view, as they cravenly held back into the star-blotted night bordering the epitome of the dying daylight's sky. A shy fingernail-thin slit of the moon hid behind barely a wispy end of a cloud; soon it would peak out and join itself with the rest of the heavenly bodies posing above. Port had to crane his neck to see it, but this brilliant sunset was worth the work. Inspiration crept into his mind as he gazed up. His notepad and quill were on the endtable that laid between his bed and the window--he grabbed it, and returned to the window to sit on the sill and write under the light of the setting sun.
'Sir Cornelius drew his sword and rallied his men to his side. They were vagabonds, thiefs, braggarts--barbaric tribesmen of the north and enemies to the good people of the kingdom. But under Cornelius's leadership, they were the only source of hope for the diseased ridden serfs of Lord Derpletom's lands below them. With these brutish men Sir Cornelius the White charged against the undead soldiers storming the valley--'
Beside his window, to his left while he faced the right, grew an oak tree that came from the monastery's walled in yard below. A branch, thick with the old oak's age, sprouted out and stood very near to him. Port didn't need to look up from his quill scratching to know who it was that was climbing up the gnarled oak, exumbing feminine grunts as they did, and perched themselves on the branch. A voice sprang up from behind his back, and he was not surprised: "Whatcha doin?"
"Does it look like any of your business?" Porter niether looked up or stopped writing. He dabbed his quill in his ink and continued on his line.
'--storming the valley, siezing them from whimpering maiden's and the homes of good people to tear thier limbs--'
"Is Fin here?" She seemed bored. And impatient.
"If he was, he'd already be making his presence known." Porter's voice was grating on annoyance. "It's not like I've tied him up in my room--if you wanna seem him, he's three cells over. Go do as you like."
'--thier limbs from thier bodies and burn thier rotting carcasses--'
The cropped black-haired girl behind him scoffed. "Tch, no need to be snappish. Just because you can read and write..."
"We're not having this arguement again."
'--rotting carcasses to dust. In great piles--'
"Oh admit it, fat monk! You look down on me--just because I'm uneducated..."
"No!" Port snapped, nearly turning around. "I look down on you because can't eat a meal without having food stuck to the nether regions of your face!"
The girl scoffed again--this time in surprised outrage. "You...so you do look down on me!!"
"We're not having this arguement," the monk repeated, grumbling and returning to his paper.
'In great piles the men layed these unholy undead whom they desecrated, and with thier torches did they light aflame these still moving corpses, releasing a smell so foul it fell the weaker stomached men among them.'
"Why won't you look at me?" She had said that after a long beat between them. It had all the childishness of an impudent small child wanting to know why it wasn't getting something from a store window it had passed by. He could hear the pout dripping from her voice.
He sighed. "I'm busy. Leave me alone--go back to bed where you belong."
He tried again return to his writing, but she was insistent.
"My wing's not broken anymore--I don't have to stay in that stinkin bed..."
"Cro, please..."
"You can't make me. You...and that wizened abbot. If I don't want to, I don't have to."
"You're being a brat." Port hadn't meant that to come out as a snarl, but it had.
Cro didn't say anything. He heard the smacking of flesh on wood--she was kicking her legs against the branch in thought. After a few beats of lag in the conversation passed, Port returned to his paper.
'Yet even as they ridded the blemished land of this hellish filth, Sir Cornelius knew his work was not done. There was still the fight with the Necromancer on top of Devil's Spine that he had to battle. Climbing the stairs of the twisting tower, Cornelius the Brave finally came to the top. The Necromancer was there--waiting.'
The sounds of wings beating in the air reached his ear, but he ignored it. Perhaps she was leaving--that would be a godsend.
'Cornelius drew his sword, Rag'nirin. He was not afraid--he had seen his death unfolded in the filmed over eyes of the blind Seer. He had fought hydras of the deep, and climbed through dark caves filled with only the imaginable evil that kept itself from God's light. He knew not fear when he faced the Necromancer, and bellowed with his great voice before the unspeakably evil sorcerer of death--'
"C..Corn...Bugger, I can't make that word out. Did you make it up?"
"BWAAH!" Porter reeled backwards from the window, spluttering ink all over his paper and part of his shirt. He cursed out loud, as usual forgetting his morals as a monk to have a spotless mouth. He looked up and glower at the girl hovering in the air by the window. "Cro!"
Cro looked sorry--for a moment. Then she crossed her arms and snarled, "Well...you shouldn't have been so bloody secrective! What's so great about that chickenscratch your making up from your head that you can notice company making conversations with ya."
'The last thing you are is company'. Port hissed through his teeth. "Get. Out. Now."
"Why?" It was an unsure counterattack. Part of her obviously felt like maybe she should go. She was inching backwards, even if it was a bit. Yet the fierce leer Porter sent straight her way made Cro make up her mind--with a heave of her black wings, she lifted herself into the air and flit out of sight.
Port looked down at his piece of precious paper--ruined. Utterly destroyed. And he couldn't even recall the tangent he had been thinking of. The sunset was nearly at its end--only a blood red blemished the night's dark now. Out of candles, and out of time for sunlight, Porter balled up the piece of paper and threw it across the room. He capped his ink bottle, stored his quill, then sat on his bed and whittled away the last of the day light hours in thought, before night prayer's and the monastery's bell sounded for curfew.

--

Actually finished. This is about a year or so old.