I sure ask a lot of these questions, haha, but I really appreciate your answers. This is just a short part of the prologue for my novel. All criticism/comments are welcome… feel free to be as harsh as you want 
(I’m aware that it’s pretty rough at the moment… the paragraphs seem pretty disconnected and such… just telling you this so you know that I’m not totally in the dark about the quality of my writing… thanks again )
The night was black and blustery, the northern winds bluntly announcing the arrival of winter. Elder Mordale slumped in the cushioned seat of his carriage with a thick quilt tucked about him and heated cobbles beneath his feet.
He had always hated carriage rides. Even as a child, when his bones had not been so creaky and his joints had been limber, he had despised the jarring motion that left him with weak legs and a headache.
Reluctantly, Mordale reached a hand outside of the warm cocoon he had formed with his blanket and rapped on the frame behind his head, signaling the driver to stop. Yet the carriage continued along its jolting way. A pit of frustration settled to the bottom of his stomach and he rapped again, harder this time. Still there was no response.
Grumbling and bemoaning the limited of abilities of hired help, he urged his beaten frame to the window, crouched, blanket puddled on the floor, and stuck his head out.
“Are you deaf?” he bellowed over the wind. “Can’t you hear me knocking? Stop the horses.” He waited for a moment, shielding his eyes from the wind with his hand. All was silent but for the howling wind and the clapping of shod hooves on stone.
“Driver!” Mordale screamed, the pit of frustration having blossomed into full fledged anger.
Then he saw the reins, flapping listlessly beneath the horses hooves. His eyes darted from the ground to the drivers bench where, though the majority of his view was blocked by the bulk of the carriage, he saw a limp hand, covered in something that glinted with a sinister blackness. Blood.
Mordale’s throat closed around a retch and he threw himself back onto the seat, his mind reeling. Someone had killed the driver, or intended to kill the driver. But he was merely a servant, a lower-class man, certainly not a man worth killing.
They’re after me. Whoever killed the driver killed him to get to me. The thought struck the elder in the heart. It was the only logical explanation. Immediately, his thoughts jumped to his destination. Elder Ghaold had invited him to his residence in the countryside for two weeks, to enjoy the last of the sun before the snows came. He should be there soon as they’d been traveling for four days, only stopping for quick meals and rest. Ghaold’s home would offer shelter, safety from the would-be murderers.
Mordale hunkered as far as he could into the seat, his hands gripping the blanket and his mouth mumbling prayers to the gods. Each second that ticked by was agonizing, the threat of a knife to the throat imminent.
After a time, his mind wandered back to the driver, now convinced he was dead. But how? Had he been shot through with an arrow, or had the assailant climbed aboard the carriage to do the deed by hand? Is he still aboard now? The thought sent shivers through his entire being. He shook his head and set himself back to his prayer.
Soon he became aware of the horses hooves slowing until eventually the carriage was moving at a crawl. Outside, muffled male voices shouted to and fro, but Mordale couldn’t catch any distinct words above his frantic mutterings.
The carriage came to a shuddering stop. The latch was unfastened on the outside of the door, and it was pulled open. The elder held his breath.
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If you got through all of that, you’re amazing!
Thanks
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