(closed)

Coronian mornings were growing on him. The sun rose slowly in front of a pink sky, painting the clouds that beautiful silver-gray-and-purple that laid across the heavens above like tattered ribbons, frozen in the breeze. The crisp morning air was a welcome reprieve from the hot days which always followed, and any semblance of shiver he had to suffer due to cold was easily offset by the small campfire that roared before him. Attila brayed contently only ten feet away as he chewed on the tall grass behind the stick/rope/leather pack tent that the aging wizard had simply constructed.

“If everything wasn’t so goddamned wet, I could get used to this. Well, I suppose we could use some coffee out here…

“And ass! I could definitely use some ass out here. And based on how ornery you’re getting, I suspect you could use a filly of your own.”

The horse did not respond, despite Storm’s insistence that his joke had earned a good hoof-stomp from the dumb mountain of equine muscle. Actively avoiding the dew-covered grass, Storm periodically rotated the small rodent he had blasted that morning on the small spit he had suspended above the campfire. A nice thin char had established around the sinew while the skin and digestive tract burned harmlessly below. It had begun to waft a pleasant scent from the spices he had pressed into the stripped meat; breakfast was nearly ready.

“Fine, you stubborn bastard. Maybe I’m not funny, but lest you forget, without me you’d be at best dragon food… and at worst, glue.”

The gleaming brown marbles shined back from Attila to his master as Storm spoke, an intelligence in the great horse’s eyes as he appeared to process the conversation. Perhaps the old magician was losing his mind on his own, but the deliberate silence from the stallion seemed to imply a sort of kinship.

A few minutes later, a single black bead appeared upon the horizon from the east, tiny clouds of dust appearing before the sound of hooves approached. Storm quickly rose to see more clearly, standing from a fallen trunk which had made a perfectly comfortable breakfast chair. As he picked a few more pieces of long, gamey meat from the skeletal remains of his prey, his deep set eyes squinted into tiny gray shards to more closely see the unexpected visitor.

Short mare, rider’s clothes. Too thin to be a warrior… no weapons visible. He’s moving fast, but not racing. Messenger.

He waited patiently as he massaged the mane of Attila, who had turned quickly to face the approaching rider. A tall, gaunt man of about fifty slowed down as he approached, empty hands visible in a non-threatening gesture. As he neared, wide hemispheres of sweat appeared as relic traces about the rider’s neck, chest, and armpits. He had been riding in these clothes for a while.

“Morning! Sorry for the interruption, but I believe that you’re the man I’ve been sent to deliver this letter to. Storm Veritas, yes? Apparently your last supply run up near Radasanth got you spotted by someone with deep pockets; thank the Gods for your big, beautiful horse that made you a little easier to track.”

Storm didn’t move with even a modicum of fear, but instead traced his left hand on the long, thin dagger behind his back. His middle finger danced a delicate circle around the rounded end of the weapon, however his signature was all the traveler had requested. Only moments later, the blade was out – this time to break the wax seal of an official letter which arrived in a suspiciously pristine envelope. Quickly reading the contents with avarice, his heart pounding. His eyes devoured the last of the letter as it fell from his shaking fingertips.

Holy shit…