A Fortress of Baked Clay

I slid my newly fletched arrow into the striped quiver behind my shoulder and ducked beneath the chipped rim of an overturned terracotta pot. The garden outside had grown deep and dark, but inside this red clay dome, the draft could not reach me. I cleared a neat circle in the damp soil with my bandaged arm, pushing aside dry pine needles to make a clean floor. Propping my bow upright against the curved clay wall, I rested my back against the sturdy shelter and took a steady breath. Through the drainage hole overhead, a faint pinprick of starlight shone through. Alone, our post is fortified for the night.