Assignment: In eighth grade on the grade-wide trip to Stratford-upon- Avon, students were given the quote, "You know, this place is pretty miserable," and the setting, Castle Warwick, for a dialogue/story thingy. Looking through my trip journal after three years, I found this little baby, dusted it off and sent you the slightly odd product.

By the way: Boy, is it interesting to look back at your writing style and ideas after a few years. Perspective! While the experience may be alarming for some, it is definitely an eye opener and greatly recommended. And yes, I was too lazy to actually overhaul the entire piece so the writing style is kinda different. ^_^ R/R bring much happiness!

Rating: PG for a brief violent description and blood.

Castle Warwick Scene: Stratford Trip- 2001

"You know, this place is pretty miserable," Ralph muttered to no one in particular. He was on wall duty and absolutely freezing, but he had to do his job.
Sarge clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Boy; you'll get used to it. We all do. Besides," the cagey veteran added with a smile, "you won't notice it if those blaggarts try and come at us again." He shook his fist in the general direction of the fields outside the castle walls then continued on his rounds.
Ralph stared at the Sarge's retreating back, then continued to pace his section of the ramparts. He glanced at the large black rain clouds on the horizon and dreaded the night to come.

Rain slashed the walls and pounded on the windows of the gatehouse. Luckily, Ralph's beat was inside. As a gust rattled the doorframe, the young man couldn't help feeling sorry for those kept outside.
The wind howled without like a hungry animal, desperate to gain entrance. The guard smiled at himself as he listened to the steady beat of the clock's cogs. Matilda would come soon with supper. His smile broadened as he thought of the scullery maid, one of the few things he'd grown fond of since his recent transfer to his new post, Warwick Castle. Eventually, the much-anticipated knock sounded and, at Ralph's call, Matilda rushed in, thoroughly soaked, and slammed the door behind her.
Throwing back her oiled cape's hood, she exclaimed, "I don't know how you men do it! I was nearly blown off the path on the way to the tower stairs."
Ralph grinned, digging out his wooden piggen. "I guess we're just built for it, me dear.: Then, jokingly, "Maybe you shouldn't try and come up here anymore. Wouldn't want you falling between the towers."
Matilda returned the banter, eyes sparkling. "Aye, but then you'd never get any of this wonderful vegetable soup, hot from Cookie's kitchen." She revealed a large kettle and Ralph filled his piggen.
Matilda pulled up her hood and smiled again at Ralph before he watched her make a dash across the ramparts toward the next guard station and empty belly. He shut the door and climbed the tight winding stairs to check the view.
As he glanced out the window, the sight of shielded light reflected off armor made him freeze for a moment in disbelief before he picked out the rest of the force, already positioned a short distance from the walls, a front line of archers with arrows knocked and ready.
"Heaven save us," he whispered before he turned and back down to the main floor. He called down the stairwell in alarm and, at once, the area was alive with movement. Messengers from the gatehouse near the ground rushed through the torrent to the castle and then horns took up the cry.
Sarge met Ralph halfway up the stairs ad yelled to him through the din, "Make sure all the ramparts know what's happening; quickly as you can." Before Ralph could nod, Sarge had pushed past Ralph and was gone.
The younger soldier ran along the top of the walls to each tower, ducking the volley of arrows and artillery that was falling in the midst of the rain. As he approached the gatehouse from the other side, the glance below showed the gates being shored up as he dodged archers arriving finally from the castle proper.
And it was then that Ralph almost tripped over Matilda on the ramparts, unconscious and bleeding from a projectile wound in her side. The soup kettle was upturned, its contents running into the puddles of water tinted red.
As Ralph knelt next to her, feeling for a pulse, she managed to open her eys and weakly say, "You know, this place is pretty miserable."