Land of Salvania

  Ritter had grown to despise the night. It seemed like all the things that wanted to harm him loved the night. He stood outside the tavern, a thatched building just outside the outpost's main gate. The townies said it had been burned down a few times, but not recently. Not since the Jirrahs had arrived. Cold rain was falling, and the sun was mostly gone. "I love the rain," Coriander said beside him. "I suspect a dryad would," Ritter groused. The tall, leafy creature next to him rumbled with mirth. "It is delicious." "It is cold," Ritter said. "I love the cold," Coriander said. Did anything bother this placid creature? "Well, there's plenty of that tonight." A large raindrop magically found its way under his collar and down his back. He raised his woolen hood in disgust. "When I was small, barely your size, we would throw enormous parties when the monsoons came." Coriander raised his arms and closed h...

  The dryad led me to the dueling pavilion, bowed, and strode into the gathering dark. I noticed he (it?) dropped a leaf on the way out, and the autumn breeze sent it skittering along the stone walkway. The lamps were already lit, and the clan pinions were hung. Mine and my opponent's hung together. The duke's silver gryphon hung alone. I adjusted my armor - a shoulder strap was too tight. Damned squire had been in a hurry to go carousing. The leather strap grazed a raw spot on my hand. Shit. It was bleeding again. The hand had almost healed three or four times, but one battle or another kept aggravating it. My betrothed, the Lady of the Dream Wood (thought she insisted I call her Matilda), had gifted me a pair of doe skin gloves to help protect the injury, but they were for a courtly evening rides in a carriage, not the battlefield. A wolf howled in the distance, and I smiled as an owl - much closer - hooted in return. It reminded me of the animal calls a Biata had ...