All of the gates were closed, both the inner and outer ring of gates were locked tight. The bridges that closed the gap from one of the outer buildings roofs to another were deployed. Guards were posted on every second building rooftop or so to watch for danger. In short what should have looked like a pretty little town at the base of a beautiful mountain looked anything but. It looked like a foreboding fortress that could repel a sizable force and I was glad that we rode to it as friends. As we rode closer and closer to the fortress that was the town of Greatfoot we were noticed by more than a few Guards standing watch. They watched us intently and motioned us to stop a few paces away from one of the gates. They looked us over from atop their rooftop lookout posts and waved a friendly greeting. One Guard in particular was in a joyous mood to see us. ‘Where are you mangy looking, sorry excuse for Guards think you’re going?’ The nearest Guard said with a broad smile and a hearty. Her mind drifted back to her first sight of him six years ago; it was her second week at Queen Anne’s College, University of North Norfolk, England, where she would be reading for her degree in English with American studies.As a young teenager her dream had been to pursue a career in international journalism or some form of media, and her University advisor had steered her towards a new and unusual module.A visiting American Professor would offer study in “The Americanization of the English Language.”Megan had walked into class on the first day half expecting to see some tall, lanky, dowdy, solemn, grey haired old professor reminiscent of James Stewart, peering out at the students over a pair of half lens professor-like reading spectacles.The man who greeted her, as well as every other student, with a handshake as they entered, was not quite what she had expected.He wasn’t tall or lanky. Dowdy, yes. Slightly unkempt, yes.But a professor who looked to be in his early thirties.His brown.
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