"It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him."
- John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
He woke up with a splitting headache, of course. Fortunately there was no sign of nausea or memory loss, so the concussion, if he had one, was minor. After a moment to check on the reports he was getting back from his body, he sat up and looked around.
His father's men had gone. Honeyfoot's corpse lay a few strides away, split completely open by some sharp blade, and the ravens were already starting to gather around it, squabbling greedily over bits of the offal spilled out of the wound onto the ground. From the smell, a dragon would likely arrive soon to chase them away from the kill until it had eaten its fill. The contents of her panniers, the supplies he'd so carefully chosen and packed, had been scattered all across the area, and almost all of them ruined in the bargain.
He checked the weapons first.
The crossbow's sinew string had been broken, along with most of the bolts, but the metal plate protecting the trigger mechanism was only dented and they'd missed the backup string stored at the bottom of the quiver. The steel gaffle to cock it was fine; probably too simple and sturdy a thing to justify smashing.
The sword - he wasn't King, yet, it wasn't his - had been glued to its sheath, from the smell of it, but the gunk hadn't had time to set, yet, and the blade came free with only a moderate amount of tugging and cursing. Evidently they hadn't expected him to wake up so quickly.
Idly he wondered how that little twist was supposed to be explained away by a dragon attack.
The shield was a loss, its opening mechanism had cracked, and actual armor would have been far to conspicous to bring, so thatwas never even a factor, but overall he'd actually come out fairly well. Living off the land was a lot of trouble, but he knew how, and, though he'd avoided it coming out, one of the innumerable mining camps dotting Fanelia's back country wasn't terribly far away.
All that being the case, he was in a fairly decent state of mind as he put the crossbow back in working order and started to gather up whatever looked intact enough to be useful while the sword dried enough to buff the glue off and the river washed the scabbard clean.
There was a good chance that a dragon could show up at any minute, of course, but being a bit sticky shouldn't impair the sword's ability to cut any and what had he come out here for it not to meet one?
So when, some distance up the bank, a triumphant shout of "Gotcha!" was interrupted by a tremendous splash, he grabbed the more comfortable weapon and its remaining bolts and went to investigate.
What he found was a lean, pretty girl with black hair plastered over her eyes and the top half of her chest, sitting on the bank of the river and trying to haul out a bulky bag that looked almost as soaked as she was by the shoulder sling.
After a moment spent appreciating how scandalously short her dress was and the way the water made even the relatively heavy fabric of her light-colored jacket cling to a not-overendowed but entirely female figure, he set the crossbow down gently and stepped up behind her. "Would you like some help?" he asked quietly.
She started, like she hadn't heard him approach, then glanced up and stared. He looked down involuntarily. Plain, unassuming tunic, sword-belt (unoccupied), pants, sturdy boots, and all of it a bit dust-stained after more than a week's travel.If he'd been in full Court regailia or something he could have understood a stare, but what he was wearing now was hardly splendid enough to earn one. When he raised his head again to meet her eyes - one was a bright, striking green, the other the classic Draconian red - she blinked and blushed lightly. "Yes, please," she said in a voice as controlled and satin-smooth as polished steel, then shifted to one side and took a better grip on the bag's strap to give him more room. "On three?" she suggested, and when they did the weight of the thing nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets - and he had hardly been doing all the work.
When they had the thing safely out of the river and were catching their breath, he took a closer - and more respectful - look at her and tried to figure out the puzzle while she opened the bag and started spreading out the contents to dry. The outfit, now that he looked at it rather than its wearer, bore a more than passing resemblance to the standard depictions of the Seeress of the Mystic Moon who had arrived so mysteriously in Gaea during Dornkirk's War... of course, it could also be taken as a prostitute's 'working clothes' layered under a warmer jacket that had been grabbed in a hurry, but there was an innocence in her demeanor that made that seem somehow unlikely.
The two problems with the idea of her being from the Mystic Moon were that, first, Draconians were supposedly unknown there, and second, the calluses on her hands were a type and pattern he recognized well - the sort that formed from weapons' practice, which was unlikely given that Gaea seemed to be the more violent of the two worlds.
===============================================
"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"
- John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
He woke up with a splitting headache, of course. Fortunately there was no sign of nausea or memory loss, so the concussion, if he had one, was minor. After a moment to check on the reports he was getting back from his body, he sat up and looked around.
His father's men had gone. Honeyfoot's corpse lay a few strides away, split completely open by some sharp blade, and the ravens were already starting to gather around it, squabbling greedily over bits of the offal spilled out of the wound onto the ground. From the smell, a dragon would likely arrive soon to chase them away from the kill until it had eaten its fill. The contents of her panniers, the supplies he'd so carefully chosen and packed, had been scattered all across the area, and almost all of them ruined in the bargain.
He checked the weapons first.
The crossbow's sinew string had been broken, along with most of the bolts, but the metal plate protecting the trigger mechanism was only dented and they'd missed the backup string stored at the bottom of the quiver. The steel gaffle to cock it was fine; probably too simple and sturdy a thing to justify smashing.
The sword - he wasn't King, yet, it wasn't his - had been glued to its sheath, from the smell of it, but the gunk hadn't had time to set, yet, and the blade came free with only a moderate amount of tugging and cursing. Evidently they hadn't expected him to wake up so quickly.
Idly he wondered how that little twist was supposed to be explained away by a dragon attack.
The shield was a loss, its opening mechanism had cracked, and actual armor would have been far to conspicous to bring, so thatwas never even a factor, but overall he'd actually come out fairly well. Living off the land was a lot of trouble, but he knew how, and, though he'd avoided it coming out, one of the innumerable mining camps dotting Fanelia's back country wasn't terribly far away.
All that being the case, he was in a fairly decent state of mind as he put the crossbow back in working order and started to gather up whatever looked intact enough to be useful while the sword dried enough to buff the glue off and the river washed the scabbard clean.
There was a good chance that a dragon could show up at any minute, of course, but being a bit sticky shouldn't impair the sword's ability to cut any and what had he come out here for it not to meet one?
So when, some distance up the bank, a triumphant shout of "Gotcha!" was interrupted by a tremendous splash, he grabbed the more comfortable weapon and its remaining bolts and went to investigate.
What he found was a lean, pretty girl with black hair plastered over her eyes and the top half of her chest, sitting on the bank of the river and trying to haul out a bulky bag that looked almost as soaked as she was by the shoulder sling.
After a moment spent appreciating how scandalously short her dress was and the way the water made even the relatively heavy fabric of her light-colored jacket cling to a not-overendowed but entirely female figure, he set the crossbow down gently and stepped up behind her. "Would you like some help?" he asked quietly.
She started, like she hadn't heard him approach, then glanced up and stared. He looked down involuntarily. Plain, unassuming tunic, sword-belt (unoccupied), pants, sturdy boots, and all of it a bit dust-stained after more than a week's travel.If he'd been in full Court regailia or something he could have understood a stare, but what he was wearing now was hardly splendid enough to earn one. When he raised his head again to meet her eyes - one was a bright, striking green, the other the classic Draconian red - she blinked and blushed lightly. "Yes, please," she said in a voice as controlled and satin-smooth as polished steel, then shifted to one side and took a better grip on the bag's strap to give him more room. "On three?" she suggested, and when they did the weight of the thing nearly pulled his arms out of their sockets - and he had hardly been doing all the work.
When they had the thing safely out of the river and were catching their breath, he took a closer - and more respectful - look at her and tried to figure out the puzzle while she opened the bag and started spreading out the contents to dry. The outfit, now that he looked at it rather than its wearer, bore a more than passing resemblance to the standard depictions of the Seeress of the Mystic Moon who had arrived so mysteriously in Gaea during Dornkirk's War... of course, it could also be taken as a prostitute's 'working clothes' layered under a warmer jacket that had been grabbed in a hurry, but there was an innocence in her demeanor that made that seem somehow unlikely.
The two problems with the idea of her being from the Mystic Moon were that, first, Draconians were supposedly unknown there, and second, the calluses on her hands were a type and pattern he recognized well - the sort that formed from weapons' practice, which was unlikely given that Gaea seemed to be the more violent of the two worlds.
===============================================
"Puripuri puripuri... Bang!"