Three Wolves
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