Night Station on the Slate

The band of light vanished into the evening chill. I marched six paces along the dark slate toward the foundation wall. A heavy cast-iron boot scraper stood anchored beside the doorframe. I halted. Formation comes first. I lowered my sword and tapped the ornamental upright with the flat of my blade. Dense metal. Not the slightest give under pressure. Moving methodically, I wedged the staff of my standard into the sheltered corner where the iron foot meets the slate tread. The curved metal spine deflects the night wind cleanly. Station fortified. The lawn below remains under steady watch.