Krisderp

Bugash was a simple man with simple wants. He dwelled comfortably in his humble shack on the shaded banks of the Silfe. To meet his few needs he dropped baited lines into the mud-brown water off his doorstep, and grew musk apples and cheld in the well-watered garden out back. His one vice was to enjoy a bottle of black beer in the evening, and these he fetched from town. He looked every inch someone who lived in humble ease: somewhat bow-legged and slump shouldered, round in the front, rather flatter in the back. His sun-darkened scalp protruded from the fringe of black hair above his ears like a large brown egg. His face was placid, and wide-nosed, equipped with a mouth meant to smile and yawn, and eyes as brown as the Silfe itself. Bugash was not alone in his peaceful existence for he had a caring wife and two lively children sharing his bliss, not to mention old Granny Ig in her shack out back. Like any typical morning, the household awoke with the sun. Tatters of night-mist