Begining

         Original

         The lush green grass swayed smoothly, in perfect rhythm with the breeze. Leaves whipped through the air on the same perfect motion, tumbling down the hills which enclose the small town of Mucro.
         Residing within its bounds was scarcely five hundred people. Auburn reeded thatched rooves unite with the blackening cedar of shingles precisely positioned on the houses. Only the church wore tiles. Heavy terracotta tiles relieved the dull brown skyline of the village with an exuberant display of orange. They appeared to shine in the light of the sun, shimmering as if made of liquid.
         The scattering of houses nestled in between the market place, church and inn created a clustered appearance when viewed from the pinnacle of the surrounding hills exaggerated through the constriction of the rocky outcrops formed at the base of the mountains. Nevertheless, to the locals the closeness of their neighbours brought a feeling of peace, security and harmony which had not been felt through out the rest of the kingdom since the War of Aestuo.
         Never receiving any assistance from their sovereign the townspeople learnt to thrive on their own intuitions and resources.
         The market place of Mucro was the centrepiece of this isolated community. Rich smells of cinnamon and apples from the pie cart infusing with the more subtly bitter oak aroma of the local ale filled the square with the familiar scent of a Sunday morning. Drifting past the rainbow of colour the stores create as the owners begin preparing for another serene autumn’s day.
         The blacksmith firing up his forge, thin beads of sweat emerging on his brow as the intense heat batters against his skin, raises his nose to the scent. Returning to his work, the muscle of his right arm constrict as the hammer launches towards the rough iron waiting on the heavy anvil. The sound of metal against metal resonates throughout the market incorporating with the tender sounds of mild banter of patrons roaming the bazaar. Ash and sweat rapidly mask the aroma of the market from the blacksmith driving his thought back to his habitual rituals of smithing.
         A thin layer of dust covers the cobblestone roads, flicking slightly into the air as the children playfully scamper through the marketplace.
         Giggling at fond memories of young wildness the farmer’s wife makes the final preparations to her bright purple stall. The wrinkles still enhanced around her mouth from the warm hearted smile always worn. Greying hair frames her pale blue eyes, encasing the knowledge of the world behind them, concealing the fading scars from view. She knew what mischief children could find themselves in.
         Fabric curtains drape from the overhanging beam creating a bevelled archway welcoming the passers by into the small booth. An array of her husbands produce lay waiting on a small trestle, flawless green apples picked the same morning sit polished neatly in a box. Oranges, grapes, pumpkins, potatoes, all presented with disciplined efficiency.
         No purses hung on the shoulders matching the vivid colours of the garments worn by young women, no coin clutched tightly to a boy’s chest in fear of losing the money his mother gave him to fetch a loaf of bread, no thief standing in the shadows of the sturdy wooden stalls waiting for the next ill-fated soul to lose their footing leaving the perfect opportunity for the awaiting pickpocket. These thoughts swam through the thick sculled heads of outsider, to those wandering the dusty, gravel covered lanes of the market place. Nothing was further from their minds.

EDITED VERSION

          The lush green grass swayed in perfect rhythm with the breeze. Leaves whipped through the air on the same perfect motion, tumbling down the hills which enclose the small town of Mucro.
          Residing within its bounds resided just five hundred people. Auburn reeded thatched rooves unite with the blackening cedar of shingles positioned on the houses. Only the church wore tiles. Heavy terracotta tiles relieved the dull brown skyline of the village with an exuberant display of orange. They appeared to shine in the light of the sun, shimmering as if made of liquid.
          The scattering of houses nestled in between the market place, church and inn created a clustered appearance when viewed from the pinnacle of the surrounding hills exaggerated through the constriction of the rocky outcrops formed at the base of the mountains. Nevertheless, to the locals the closeness of their neighbours brought a feeling of peace, security and harmony which, since the War of Aestuo, the rest of the kingdom felt naught.
          Never receiving any assistance from their sovereign the townspeople learned to thrive on their own intuitions and resources.
          Mucro held its marketplace as the centrepiece of this isolated community. Rich smells of cinnamon and apples from the pie cart infusing with a more subtle bitter oak aroma of the local ale filled the square with the familiar scent of a Sunday morning. Drifting past the rainbow of colour the stores create as the owners begin preparing for another serene autumn’s day.
          The blacksmith firing up his forge, thin beads of sweat emerging on his brow as the intense heat batters against his skin, raises his nose to the scent. Returning to his work, the muscle of his right arm constrict as the hammer launches towards the rough iron waiting on the heavy anvil. The sound of metal against metal resonates throughout the market incorporating with the tender sounds of mild banter of patrons roaming the bazaar. Ash and sweat mask the aroma of the market from the blacksmith driving his thought back to his habitual rituals of smithing.
          A thin layer of dust covers the cobblestone roads, flicking into the air as the children scamper through the marketplace.
          Giggling at fond memories of young wildness the farmer’s wife makes the final preparations to her bright purple stall. The wrinkles still enhanced around her mouth from the warm hearted smile always worn. Greying hair frames her pale blue eyes, encasing the knowledge of the world behind them, concealing the fading scars from view. She knew what mischief children could find themselves in.
          Fabric curtains drape from the overhanging beam creating a bevelled archway welcoming the passers by into the small booth. An array of her husbands produce lay waiting on a small trestle, flawless green apples picked the same morning sit polished in a box. Oranges, grapes, pumpkins, potatoes, all presented with disciplined efficiency.
          No purses hung on the shoulders matching the vivid colours of the garments worn by young women, no coin clutched to a boy’s chest in fear of losing the money his mother gave him to fetch a loaf of bread, no thief standing in the shadows of the sturdy wooden stalls waiting for the next ill-fated soul to lose their footing leaving the perfect opportunity for the awaiting pickpocket. These thoughts swam through the thick sculled heads of outsider, to those wandering the dusty, gravel covered lanes of the market place their minds rendered them inconceivable.