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Weekly Contest #325
The breeze blew gently; perhaps too gently. Too gentle for an autumn night, too calm; too static. The baron, a short man with perhaps too much pride, was gazing at the great dark ocean before him. The wind blew his golden locks, brushing against his skin: like the cat he played with when he was just a boy, going round and round around the child's head. Only this breeze was cold; and though it was kind, it was cruel too. Those kind breezes are the ones who bring death to the unexpecting: the same who took the baron’s wife and child into the d...
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