|Picture from here|
The onshore wind rustled the tussocky grass sprouting from the hillock. A profligate worrier (certainly not a warrior) Bran had scattered the rocky path that wound up from the firth with caltrops - a futile attempt to slow any raider who came seeking revenge. Deep in thought, pensive about how exposed he was in the watchtower, Bran hunkered down under his cape awaiting either the dawn or vikings.
In the past others had been found asleep at the post, but thoughts of danger about the nocturnal posting petrified the crofter too much to even consider shutting his eyes. Staring at the horizon in the darkness for hours on end like this was mental torture, the worst thing Bran could imagine. He was wrong... in the early hours of the morning, a longboat silently made its way up the coast. Sobbing in fear, Bran sounded the horn then ran for his farm.