Chapter 1
Proctor
Jess B.
Prologue:
So miserable a place as this, he thought despairingly.
I lift me head but wince and again, I surrender, letting it slump sluggishly to one side. I hear me own breath as well and tis unnatural to one’s own self that I recall. Tis ragged or bewitched in some respects. Never before should I think air would sound that of a rattle in a babe’s crib but here I sit and I hear rattling in me owns chest every time I exhale. If I should sub come to, in which awaits us all I suppose inside these walls of the Fort, I pray my demise be peaceful; I shall not unite with the others in pain as they suffer the fever and grow welts of sorts that penetrate from flesh. Perhaps sickness might be me last escape if tranquility does not bless me soul for thy starvation or the feeling of veins going so numb and cold, I shall never know or wake to witness another sunrise.
A few of the men have already perished along the march in ankle-deep snow. I cannot speak for them, but I felt and still do, feel deceived. Those men, so poorly clothed, with a few pelts draped around or blankets that wrapped their skin, they were the first to bid us farewell within a few miles. I admit, I am not properly clothed me self either but here I remain, alive, but so uncomfortable.
Food, he thought hungrily.
I’d give me big toe if it meant a satisfying meal! I cannot recall when it was I was allowed so much as a strip of meat. Too long I suppose.
Me neck begins to ache, and once more I brace me self by biting down hard and slowly but gently lift. I get it about half way so I am able to see straight out but quickly, the familiar heaviness rekindles the predicament me poor body endures since we arrived this December.
I bare witness to the most melancholy spectacle and for I wish not to see it any longer, I deliberately lower me head and cast sorrowful eyes to me toe sticking through the worn, black leather of me shoe. I attempt to wiggle it. The digit wishes not to agree. I release a long sigh but hack and cough in between before I am allowed a full exhale. In these thoughts, I focus on the spectacle, even though as brief as it was, I feel the rhythm of me breathing increase and me body tenses up like that of a wench underneath, pleasuring. I look down. Me brown breeches, I know, are in need of repair. Under two cuttings of heavy wool tied back on the tops of each leg, still the chill finds it merry way through me bones, causing further discomfort.
To further distract of what I just bared witnessed too, I grab either side of me coat, and pull the sides tighter. Perhaps one should make the effort to stand if ye should die presently but even that simple task is beyond me control. So, here I sit with me thoughts, and await when the Gen’ls make their way over here. They move from one body to the next; it will only be a few moments when I hear the sloshing of boots.
That said, I'm going to try anyway.
Your dialogue seems very convincing. Most people would just throw it a 'ye' here and a 'thou' there and think that makes it historical fiction. I'd fall under that catagory, most likely. 
You pull off the style of the times without your piece coming across as hopelessly fake and overdone, though, so kudos to that.
Perhaps I'll be of a bit more assistance in the next chapter, yes?
