A tale of The Poor Knights of Christ and the Temple of Solomon and their doomed quest to obtain the Holy Grail, written 250-300 words at a time, as would be encountered on the pages of a novel.
Near modern day Kensington, Minn.
Year of our Lord 1362
There was nothing in this life that could deter the knight from his charge. Neither the biting cold nor the knee-high snow nor the frozen ground. Then, it was no deterrent in this life he had to contend with.
Like the others, he was stricken by God’s wrath. Yet he was determined to give the last of his companions proper burials. They deserved that much. But he had to conserve his energy. Being the last man, it fell to him to raise the marker stone to warn others seeking absolution, that only death awaited them in this New World.
He spied the cursed slab over his shoulder as he again hefted his ax over head for another blow. The hard earth gave very little. Exhausted and frustrated by what little progress he was making, he dropped to his knees and raked the ground in vain.
A shallow grave would have to do.
Tossing the ax aside, he crawled from the hole toward the last body. There was no need to keep his distance. He already had the affliction. And even if he hadn't, he’d rather die than survive in this evil place. Especially if Heaven awaited. Even now, he did not doubt it.
He wrestled the body into the hole by the underarms. It was not a tall hole, so the legs had to be bent. It seemed fitting that his companion should leave the world similar in aspect to which he entered it.