Bane's blog: "please don't steal "

For the first time in what feels like months I have once again wrapped horribly abused fingers around a quill and for once, since everything has changed, I feel human. I estimate that it has been at least a season since my feet have touched the sweet softness of freshly plowed dirt. If I dream and wish hard enough I can smell the sweat of the draft horse my father purchased the summer before last. He was underfed and mistreated, he was terrified of my father for the longest time, yet he held no fear of me. We bonded under the apple tree in the pasture. It took the whole season for my father to get anywhere near him.

I never told my father that I had been riding his work horse for almost half of the summer. I am sure he suspected it, but he never said anything about it. I only realized he knew the day he handed me the bucket of brushes. He had warned my brothers away from the “Beast”, his affectionate term for the horse.

I admit I have lost track of the days. The icy stones underfoot, tell that winter approaches. Each morning it seems the stones hold even more of a chill then the day before. I hate to think of the chill that this place will hold as winter rages over the land. There is no reason for my captors to keep me locked away so far from the ground. I miss the smell of dirt and earth. I am not sure how many days I have spent locked away in this dank place; they moved me here not long after I arrived. I have tried to reach the outer shutters on the bared window and cannot get them to close. Each day this almost barren room seems to pull the warmth right out of me. I fear I will not last the winter if I continue to receive no fire wood to burn in the small fireplace in the corner.