Securing the Redoubt

Night claimed the high plateau of the picnic table. The trench of white crystals I swept earlier marked the perimeter, but an exposed watch invites the chill. I marched back to the ceramic mug's shadowed base. A dry, ribbed peanut shell lay rolled against a splintered timber groove. Dense, hollow, and arched like an iron shield. I gripped both halves, jammed my heels into the grain, and hauled the brittle shell into the narrow gap beneath the mug handle. It wedged tight with a stiff crunch, sealing off the north draft. I sat back against the glazed wall, broadsword across my knees. The redoubt is garrisoned.