Pandora

 Siobhan stood at the railing, shivering in the damp mist that had enveloped the ferry ever since they had left Tory.  The boat had left after midnight, and the past three days had passed in a strange, sunless twilight. The passengers were allowed on deck, and many had spent that first day at the rails, squinting into the swirling mist. Eventually, most had returned below deck, to their cabins, to endure the voyage in solitude.

 Siobhan could not blame them. The mist swirled around the ship, illuminated as a white formless fog during the daylight hours, and a creeping gray menace after sunset.  The Captain and the crew did not seem bothered by it, going about their duties with aplomb, shooing the occasional passenger out of the way.

 Siobhan tried to stay out of their way. She stood close to the railing, peering into the mist, wondering if she would ever see the sun or moon again.

 Time had lost all meaning. The hours crept past at a snail's pace and, when she glanced at her watch, she wasn't surprised to see that it had stopped. In fact, she'd learned that the only dependable clock on the whole ferry was the Captain's pocket watch.

 "Penny for your thoughts, miss?"

 Startled, Siobhan turned to find the Captain standing next to her.

 He was a big man, broad-shouldered, with the weatherbeaten face of a lifelong sailor. His salt-and-pepper beard was neatly trimmed and his eyes were dark and shining. He wore a black cap, and a heavy coat and smelt like spices and old wood.

 "My apologies. I didn't mean to startled you."

 "That's all right, Captain." She touched her breast, felt her heart pounding like a startled bird. "I was just wondering if we'd ever see the sun again."

 The Captain chuckled. It was an easy sound, but she sensed it wasn't something he did very often.

 "Soon enough, miss. We'll be into port within the hour."

 "What's Pandora like?" she asked.

 "Heaven to some. Hell to others. Home to many."

 She watched his face as he spoke, noticed that his expression did not change, but that his eyes gleamed when he spoke of their destination.

 "Which is it to you?" Siobhan dared to ask.

 The Captain's eyes went flat and black and she saw his jaw clench for a moment.

 "I couldn't say, miss."

 He inclined his head, and walked away.

 "You're a bold one."

 A lean, dark figure approached Siobhan. She recognized the youth as one of the crew. He wore the heavy, shapeless sweaters they all seemed to favor, over tough denim trousers. His hair was dark, short and spiky. A silver ring pierced his right eyebrow, and a web of vibrant red ink wrapped around his throat. His dark eyes gleamed and he had an easy, wide grin that, Siobhan suspected, got him into and out of trouble with equal ease. He was more pretty than handsome, and she thought he could have been Spanish or Hungarian or even Asian. But when he spoke, he spoke in the same curious accent as the Captain.

 "Am I?"

 "Oh yeah," said the youth. He leaned against the railing, grinned at her. "I've seen the Captain thump people for asking him questions like that. He must like you."

 "Thank heaven for small favors," said Siobhan. "You're Lizec? Yes?"

 He bobbed his head. "Lizec Garo."

 "You're Pandoran."

 "Born and bred," he said, flashing her another grin. "I've been away on promenade, but now I'm coming home."

 "Did you miss it?"

 Lizec sighed. "More than words can say."

 "What's it like?"

 He grinned, considered the question for a moment before answering. "Hard to describe. Like a house on fire on a moonful night. Or maybe riding a slow moving rollercoaster during a thunderstorm."

 "Those are very poetic descriptions, but not very clear," said Siobhan.

 "That's what Pandora's like," said Lizek. "A poem, whispered at night, in the ear of a lover. Or a song, howled into the void."  He shrugged.  "It's different for everybody."

 "I wonder which it'll be for me?"

 "Look ahead," said Lizek. He pointed ahead of them. "See for yourself."

 Siobhan followed his finger and saw that the swirling mists were thinning. Over the patient drone on the Ferry's engine, now she could hear waves slapping against a shore. Gulls screamed and wheeled overhead, against an overcast sky the color of slate. She lowered her gaze and looked ahead and saw Pandora for the first time.

 Siobhan's first impression was of activity. A busy wharf. Small fishing boats, painted bright shades of green and yellow, with billowing red sails, putting in and pulling away from crumbling stone and rotting wooden docks, dancing among and between the rusting hulks of half-sunken ships.

Noise. The sound of voices belonging to men and woman. Some shouting in conversation, others raised in anger. Weaving through it all the scream of gulls, the sputter of engines, the mournful sound of bagpipes and the bright shimmer of a guitar. Voices, fine and pure, raised in a song, piercing the din like a silver needle, the words a mystery to her.

The smells. God! The smells! The stink of the sea, of brine and fish, tangled up with the smell of diesel and burning coal. The wind carried the scent of unwashed bodies and rotting meat to her nose, slammed Siobhan's senses with smells of exotic spices and fresh-cut lumber, blood and ozone, fresh-baked bread and burning meat.

Her eyes drifted from the wharf, the docks, to wooden warehouses. Cobblestoned streets wove among the building, climbing a gently rising hill. She saw horse-drawn carts, laden with goods, plodding through crowds of pedestrians, bicyclists and even what she recognized as rickshaws. Siobhan's gaze went up the hill, noting old buildings of wood and stone, what looked like wrought iron street lamps. She saw more modern-looking buildings, standing on cliffsides, facing the ocean, and beyond them a haze of gray that could have been rain or buildings or just smoke.

She swallowed and clenched the railing.

"It's so much more than I thought it would be," Siobhan said, very softly.

Beside her, Lizec grinned.

"Welcome to Pandora."

 

25 Inns for Your Fantasy Campaigns

01 The Happy Purse

Of course your purse'll be happy. This place is a dump. For 3c a night you get a cot with a straw pallet in a big communal dormitory. There's no bar and no food, but you can find those close by. The place is clean and doesn't have fleas, but they throw everybody out in the morning so they can scrub the whole place down. Then they don't start renting cots out again until sunset. The staff, what there is, is just kind of there, but the manager doesn't take crap from anybody. Anyone causes problems, he screams for the watch. But, if you're looking for a cheap place to sleep for a night in town, mostly free of 'drama' and free of fleas, then this place might be for you. 2/5 Stars.

02 The Three Coins

The Three Coins is a nice establishment on a quiet little sidestreet in one of the town's nicer neighborhoods. It's two stories tall, with only four rooms to let, but those rooms are nice. The prices are high: 3g per room, per night. There's a good restaurant downstairs, and meals are included for guests. The staff is polite, efficient and discreet. That said, their clientelle tends to be a bit sleezy; the children of lesser nobility, social-climbing merchants, wealthy individuals looking for somewhere to have discreet assignations. 4/5 Stars.

03 The White Lady

A comfortable hostel in a recently gentrified neighborhood of the city. It's a two-story building made of gray stone with eight rooms on the second floor. The rooms are comfortable, if unremarkable. The prices are reasonable, 8s per room per night. There is a common room, that serves beer and spirits, but the food is average. That said, the lunch special is very popular with locals during the day. The service is competant, if unremarkable, and the rooms are clean. The biggest complaint I've heard concerns noise from the next street over, the site of several taverns and festival halls. 3/5 Stars.

04 The Inn-by-the-City-Gates

You could walk by this place and never notice it. Prior to becoming an inn, it was a watchman's barracks and a temporary jail. That probably explains the miniscule, airless rooms and why there always seems to be a watchman in the common room. There are six rooms above the common room, which is open late. The atmosphere of the place can be boisterous and sound penetrates the rooms, so sometimes a good night's sleep is difficult to get. That said, the inn has loyal customers and the common room's crowd is large and varied; in addition to the aforementioned watchmen, you can observe merchants talking with craftsmen and artisans, local shopkeepers hobnobbing with street musicians and even some rather shady types holding court in the darker corners of the room. Prices are 1s per room per night. The staff here is very friendly and attentive, willing to go that extra mile to make your stay pleasant. Unfortunately, the place could use more frequent cleaning; dust seems to cover everything and get everywhere, but I couldn't tell you where it comes from. 2/5 Stars.

05 The Reindeer's Head. 

A rustic lodge on the Northern Road, outside the city, this inn's name comes from the reindeer's head that's stuffed and mounted in the common room. The place is bigger than it looks, with twelve rooms to let, ranging in price from 5s for a standard double to 8s for something bigger and nicer. There's even a suite that can be rented, in advance, for 1g per night. The place gets a lot of traffic and fills up quickly, so if you plan on staying here stop early. The staff is average and the place is fairly clean. The common room is large, serves big portions of average food, and offers a limited range of spirits. The bar closes at ten each night, no exceptions, and loud drunks aren't tolerated. 

Then there's the reindeer's head itself. It's mounted above the bar in the common room and there are stories about it. People say that on Midwinter's Eve, the head comes to life and starts to sing odd songs about a strange fellow who lives far to the north. At midnight, it stops singing and will utter a prediction for the new year that always comes true.

Of course, the owners deny these stories, but they always close the place during the week of Midwinter and never say why. 3/5 Stars.

06 The Heart & Hands

A three-story establishment on the border between the good part of town and the bad, the industrial area and the commercial district. The outside is painted bright yellow and there's an impressive, albeit faded, mural of the inn's namesakes on one side. They have twelve small rooms to let for 5s per night, and rent pallets on the first floor for 1s.  There isn't a common room or a restaurant, but there are eateries close by. The staff is small and overworked and sometimes the condition of the rooms is less than stellar. Beware the bedbugs and fleas. 1/5 Stars.

07 The Quiet House

This establishment can be found tucked away at the end of a dead-end lane, surrounded by townhomes and guildhalls. The Quiet House is a two-story clapboard building with a small front porch, a nice rear garden and a newly-replaced roof. There are only four rooms to let, but they're comfortable and clean. There's no common room, but the owners do provide home-cooked meals. Intoxicants of any type are not allowed. Nor is the practice of magic, although magic-users are tolerated. The front doors are locked at 9:00 p.m. every night. If you get locked out, you can sleep on the porch. 

There is a supernatural quietness permeating the house, the result of a magic ritual that went awry and blew the roof off the place over a decade ago. It's impossible to communicate above a whisper within the house. 3/5 Stars.

08 The Bed & Bar

The Bed & Bar is a large, four story establishment containing eighteen rooms to let, as well as a full-service bar housed in another building. Both businesses are connected by a covered walkway, and both are open 24-hours a day, seven days a week. Room prices range from 5s to 2g, and they're worth the money. The staff is professional and courteous and the rooms are immaculate. The bar offers a complete range of drinks, and a rotating selection of tasty snacks. However, if you want a proper meal you'll have to go elsewhere. The owners of The Bed & Bar are a young couple and their clients tend to be younger as well, and socially egalitarian. It's not uncommon to take a seat at the bar and find yourself talking with a young, socially consciouse arisocrat on one side, and a working-class craftsman on the other. 4/5 Stars.

09 The Numbered House

The Numbered House is easily found in its village; it's the only building with an official street number, meaning it's the only building the postal guilds can deliver mail to reliably. The house itself is an ugly  two-story building made of fitted, gray blocks. It has six rooms to let at 5s per night. It has two additional rooms to let over the stables, out back, for 1s per night.  The Numbered House does not have a common room, but it does serve supper. The food is adequate, if bland. The staff is unfriendly, but competant. Complaints and requests are ignored. More than one guest has stormed out after arguing with the owner over some addendum to the bill. Honestly, if it's summer and it's not raining, you would do better to sleep outdoors. 1/5 Stars.

10 The Rare Beauty

Built in the style of a miniature palace, The Rare Beauty is a pink and peach confection that stands out like a sore thumb.  It is tasteless and tacky, ridiculously overpriced and badly staffed. There are velvet paintings everywhere. The place reeks of scented candles and potpourri. They lose staff like a leper loses fingers. Despite all of this, the place is a huge success, booked solid well in advance by rich holiday-takers who seem to think the place is some kind of deliberate joke. I weep for the future. 3/5 Stars.

11 The Blue Anchor

It would be easy to describe this seaside motel as cheap and clean with a friendly staff, but that would be a disservice. With fourteen rooms to let, at 5s per night, the Blue Anchor is an affordable favorite for many travelers heading to the shore. It doesn't have a restaurant, but it does have a bar, manned by an actual bartending wizard. The bartender can magically create the perfect drink for an individual thanks to a unique spell that only he knows. Of course, if the bar's customers get out of hand, the bartending wizard isn't shy about casting Findel's Firebolt or Sinhaven's Mass Sleep. Customers tend to be jolly, but very well-behaved. 4/5 Stars.

12 The Magic Tankard

The Magic Tankard is a tavern/inn about twelve miles north of the city gates.  The place is a single-story establishment, with fourteen rooms to let. Most of the rooms are a bit small, but the prices are good, ranging from 3c for a common room to 3g for a fine suite. The staff is well known for their friendliness and professionalism, and the place is kept in an immaculate condition. It is very popular with merchants, mercenaries and adventurers. Occasionally, a brawl breaks out in the common room, but it is quickly put down by the place's bouncer, a green-haired she-brute named Monika Panbera. 3/5 Stars.

13 The Goat & Shepherd

The Goat & Shepherd is an idyllic country inn with ten rooms to let for 5s per night. The place is quiet and clean, with a reasonably efficient staff.  Most of the common room trade comes from the locals, and the barmaids can be a font of useful local information. Outsiders are generally viewed with suspicioun by the locals. 3/5 Stars.

14 The Traveler's Dream

The Traveler's Dream is anything but. A sprawling one-story building with fourteen rooms to let, the place has changed hands about five times in the last decade. The current owner is a cheerful idiot named Hawthorne.  The rooms are let for 6s per night, and the acomodations are average. However, the staff is ancient, comprised of septugenerains who should have retired long, LONG ago.  There's a common room which offers buffet style eating, but the beer and spirits are definitely sub-par.  Room service is available, but we don't recommend using it. 2/5 Stars.

15 The Priest's Head

The Priest's Head is a one-story brick building that offers nine rooms to let for the evening. The cost of a room is only 5c, and you can get a space in the common room for free for as long as they're available. The inn is run by the Church and the service is less than stellar. The entire place could use a good cleaning. They offer cheap beer and watered down wine in the small common room, and simple foodstuffs like bread, cheese and boiled mutton. The name of the place derives from an unpleasant incident in the distant past. Frequent guests claim that they've seen a headless priest wandering the hallways late at night. The Church doesn't deny these claims, but they don't confirm them either. Stay here at your own risk. 2/5 Stars.

16 The Fine Dish

The Fine Dish is a single-story hostel with thirteen rooms to let for about 6s per night. However, what really sets this place apart from others is its restaurant. The Fine Dish has a large restaurant, overseen by Valerius Cain, one of the finest chefs in the whole wide world. He could be employed in any one of a dozen royal courts, so what Cain is doing working in The Fine Dish is something of a mystery. He refuses to discuss his reasons and can become quite violent if pushed, and he is an expert with knives. Irregardless, Chef Cain has put The Fine Dish on the map. The place is booked well in advance and serves the cream of society.  The staff is professional and friendly, in a detached way, and the rooms are airy and clean. 5/5 Stars.

17 The Red Eagle

The Red Eagle is a pleasant three-story country inn midway between the trading towns of Highmarket and Turner's Shank. As such, the Red Eagle is always busy. The common room never closes, and neither does its kitchen, although after midnight the menu offered is heavily restricted. The Red Eagle has eleven rooms to rent for 5s a night, but if booked solid the owner will happily let travelers sleep above the stables for 5c. The rooms are clean and the staff is fairly friendly.  The Red Eagle's owner, Adara Rexford, is a veteran of the Necromancer's War and she doesn't tolerate troublemakers of any kind. 4/5 Stars.

18 The Archer's Tree

The Archer's Tree is a pleasant little inn that has seven rooms to let for 5s per night. The inn itself is a three-story clapboard home with dark red shingles. In the front of the inn is a mighty oak and the inn's namesake. It's founder, Nestor Raburn, was an adventurer. When he retired, he and his old cronies would gather beneath the oak, to talk and drink. Eventually, Raburn built the inn. He died before it opened, but his heirs named it the Archer's Tree in honor of the oak that had provided Raburn and his friends with a comfortable meeting-place for over a decade.

The Archer's Tree is very nice. The Raburn family is very friendly, willing to go the extra mile to make their guest's stay as enjoyable as possible. The rooms are large, well-aired and very clean. The common room, although small, offers some nice local beers and complimentary tobacco to smokers. There are picnic tables set up beneath the oak tree in front of the inn, and at night patrons will gather there by lamplight to talk and drink and have a good time. 4/5 Stars.

19 The Three Bells

The Three Bells is an inn run by the Hospitable Order of St. Zeno in a neighborhood on the edge of the Commercial District. The Three Bells is a one story stone building that was once owned by the Weavers Guild.  It's common room is still frequented by many members of that guild to this day. The inn is clean and the brothers are nice but the Three Bells is definitely a no frills kind of establishment. They offer an evening meal with room rental, and a variety of watered-down beers and wines in the common room. The brothers do perform communal prayers but attendance is completely volluntary. 3/5 Stars.

20 The Fortunate Arms

The Fortunate Arms is a rather ramshackle building, six-stories tall, in a once-fashionable district of the city. It provides lodging to both permanent residents and nightly renters. The property is owned and managed by Mrs. Sephrena Quincy, a woman rumored to have ties to both the Spider Guild and the Scorpion Brotherhood. Rooms at the Fortunate Arms rent for 3g per night. The price includes use of the bath house next door, as well as two meals in the inn's restaurant. The Fortunate Arms has a rooftop bar open during the warmer months of the year. It is quite popular with residents, guests and locals. Known troublemakers are barred and repeat offenders are dealt with harshly by Mrs. Quincy and her bouncer, Fainol. 3/5 Stars.

21 The Bear's Den

The Bear's Den can be found about a day's travel south of the city. It's a two-story log and brick structure that has seen better days. The atmosphere of the place is a bit dark. Its ten rooms, rented for 6c per night, are small and poorly ventilated. The staff is reasonably competant but not, in our experience, the friendliest. The common room is large, smells of woodsmoke and everything seems covered by a fine layer of soot. We don't recommend the food, but the house beer is strong and cheap. Order is kept by the bartender and two bouncers, but trouble is rare. The Bear's Den caters mostly to cheap merchants, groups of religious pilgrims, students and migrant workers. It has a bad reputation with the locals, who usually refer folk looking for accomodation to other establishments. 2/5 Stars.

22 The White Fleece

The White Fleece is a squalid establishment on Eagle Street run by a wicked old crone named Esther Merrybones and her two daughters, known simply as Cinders and Rags. The flop has ten rooms that can be rented hourly, for 6c, or nightly, for 1s. The best thing to be said about this place is that it's fairly clean. There are no ammenities unless you count the streetwalkers who use this place for their business as such. We don't recommend this place unless you are truly desperate. 0/5 Stars.

23 The Angel Inn

A nondescript two-story building on a quiet, country lane near the market town of Gildstone, the Angel Inn is a fairly new hostel. Opened just seven months ago, the ten-room inn is run by Mrs. Edwina Spread. She claims the idea to open the inn came to her in a dream. Perhaps she should have kept dreaming. For 5s per night, you get an ordinary room and a meal. However, the service in the common room, and the rest of the hotel, leaves a lot to be desired. It is haphazard, at best, and, given the price, there are other establishments nearby that provide similar accomodations with better service. 2/5 Stars.

24 The Golden Antelope

The Golden Antelope occupies a three-story brick building, on Bell Street, in the Market District. It has ten spacious rooms to rent for 6s per night. The staff is excellent, attentive and professional. The common room is cozy, offering a wide range of spirits. There is a seperate restaurant for meals, and a light breakfast is included in the cost of the room. Both the common room and the restaurant are popular with the locals.

The inn's name derives from the small golden statue of an antelope that can be seen in the lobby. A thief tried to steal it once; his severed and preserved hands are on display in a glass case below the statue as a curiosity and a warning. 3/5 Stars.

25 The Two Bales

The Two Bales is the only inn in the farming town of Hen's Foot.  The nine room establishment, occupying a repurposed barn, charges 6c per night. The rooms are comfortable and clean, but the staff could be more professional. There is a common room, which has live music most nights. The food is unremarkable, and not included in the room cost, but the local beer is quite good. Most of The Two Bales clients are grain merchants and the like, folk who have business dealings with the farms surrounding Hen's Foot.  Occasionally a trade caravan stops for a night, but this mostly happens during the summer. 3/5 Stars.

THROUGH THE WOODS

Quinn Wyndham lived in the village of Glint. He was 17 years old, with long dark hair, dark blue eyes and a dark complexion. He had drifted from job to job since he was 12, none of them able to hold his interest for very long. Now, his parents were fed up and they had  told him to either get a job or get out of their house.  So, Quinn had taken a job as a messenger.  His first assignment was to deliver a letter from Glint to the town of Hart's Hill, through the Grimmwood.

And so, wearing borrowed armor and armed with a couple of daggers and a shortsword, the letter tucked safely into his pack, Quinn Wyndham set out on his adventure.

* * *

The walk from Glint to the edge of the Grimmwood took  about four hours. Most of it was uphill as Glint was near the coast. 

It was easy to tell when he had reached the Grimmwood. The dirt road, wide enough for two carts to pass one another, vanished between dark trees. As Quinn drew nearer, he saw that the trees appeared to have frightening faces growing out of their trunks. The tree limbs stirred in the breeze, as if trying to grasp Quinn as he drew near. Drawing a deep breath, Quinn screwed his courage to the sticking place, and stepped into the Grimmwood.

* * *

After an  hour in the Grimmwood Quinn was feeling more at ease. He'd heard the stories about this place. Growing up in Glint, it was impossible not to hear them. But the forest didn't  seem that different from any other wood he'd visited. The trees were tall and, past the forest's edges, had a comforting lack of scary faces. Animals moved through the brush. The birds....

For the first time, Quinn realized that the birds had gone silent. That, in fact, the entire forest seemed to have gone silent. He stopped walking and, nervously, looked around himself.

It's almost like the Grimmwood is holding its breath, thought Quinn.

And then he heared something moving through the brush. Moving closer. Something that clicked and clacked,  like the sound of dice being shaken in a cup.

Instinctively, Quinn gripped the hilt of his blade and turned in a circle. Part of his mind was yelling at him to take cover, to hide, but Quinn knew that if he did that then he might as well give up now because he would  never make it to Hart Hill.

He turned, slowly, and spotted two flickering lights in the distance. At first, he thought that they were lanterns, but as they moved closer, accompanied by the click-clack sounds, soon Quinn could see that they were not lanterns. 

The yellow light poured out of the empty, bone sockets of a monster. It stood about as tall as Quinn himself, but lacked all flesh. The creature was skeletal, made entirely of bones bound together with glowing copper wire. With every step it took,  its wired bones clicked and shifted against each other, creating the distinctive sound that gave  this creature its name: rattlebones.

It moved toward Quinn at a steady pace, and as it did Quinn saw that, instead of hands, the creature's limbs ended in rusty shortswords.

Quinn drew a breath and unsheathed his own shortsword. The hilt felt  hot and sweaty in his hands and he thought back to the long hours on the village green, being forced to practice by Master Galt.

The rattlebones bore down on Quinn. 

Some part of Quinn's mind was screaming at him that he should have run. Quinn willed that part to shut up, and stepped forward,  swinging his blade at the skeleton.

The blade slammed into bone. Sparks flew upon contact between the steel and the bones. One of the creature's arm bones splintered, and it rocked backwards on its bony heels.

Quinn thought that he might have had a chance, but then the rattlebones lunged forward with its sword-hands.  The blades skittered across Quinn's chest, scraping against his third-hand leather armor, glancing off of his right arm. It tore  through his shirt-sleeve, seared across his arm. Quinn hissed and danced back, more on instinct than anything else. 

He retaliated, slamming his blade into the rattlebones' ribs. They popped and cracked like brittle sticks and the weird sulfurous light in its eyes flickered for just a moment, but it seemed to recover.

It stepped away from Quinn, circled him. Quinn turned to follow it, hoping to anticipate its attack, but the rattlebones was fiendishly quick. It lunged forward, moving in a blur. Quinn felt the blade-hands rake across his thigh and arm. Grunting, he staggered back.  

You should have run and hidden, the traitorous part of his brain whispered.

"No," growled Quinn, and lunged at the rattlebones.

But the creature turned, batted Quinn's sword away, before striking again. To his own amazement, Quinn blocked the rattlebones' strikes. The first he slapped away, the second he blocked, although its rusty blade did prick his neck.

Grunting, Quinn pushed the monster away and swung wildly, desperately. His shortsword smashed through the monster's ribs, tore through the dreadful thing's spine. As it pierced the yellowed bones and copper wiring binding the rattlebones together, a shower of sparks exploded from the severed spine. The lights, glowing in the rattlebones' empty eye-sockets, vanished and it collapsed to the road.

Quinn stared at it, breathing heavily, his pulse pounding in his ears. He expected the creature to rise, to strike at him again, but that did not happen.

After a few moments, he realized that the birds were singing again. That the forest around him seemed to be breathing, having released its held breath.

Well, mused Quinn, kicking at the rattlebones' sword-hands. I guess I won.

So thinking, he staggered off of the road, and sat with his back against a tree. He watched the rattlebones, lying in the dust, just in case. But the wind felt nice against his cheeks and the forest canopy parted for a moment, letting warm sunlight touch his face. A moment later, Quinn was fast asleep.

He woke hours later, to his chagrin. His limbs were stiff, his wounds untended. The rattlebones was still lying where it fell.

Quinn cleaned his wounds as best he could, then walked over to the skeleton-creature. Methodically, he kicked its skull in and then stomped all of its bones. Just in case. Then, he drug it off the road, to lie against the tree trunk that he had slept beneath.

He considered taking its sword-hands, but the blades were somehow fused with the bones and Quinn couldn't think what he would do with them besides throw them in the woods. In the end, he shrugged and glanced at the sky.

He had a few hours before sunset, and miles to go yet before he reached Hart Hill. Shouldering his pack, he walked  deeper into the Grimmwood.

The road was wide and clear of debris. Quinn made good time, although he paid more attention to the birds. But they seemed oblivious to any danger, twittering away at each other, flying between trees. After a couple of hours, Quinn did encounter the ripe, rich smell of rotting flesh.

He spotted a dark, reptilian body, about the size of a sheep, lying still among the trees. Whatever it was, it seemed quite dead. Quinn moved to the edge of the road and squinted, but decided not to investigate further. Because what if, whatever it was, wasn't really dead? Or worse? What if it was dead, but rose from the ground and attacked? His encounter with the rattlebones was still fresh in his mind.

Quinn walked on, until his legs started to tremble. He knew he would not make it to Hart Hill today, but he had hoped to make it deeper into the Grimmwood before he had to stop for the night.

He stopped and stepped, cautiously, off of the road. There were  tall, strange trees nearby with a patch of rough earth between them, almost bereft of grass. He decided that this spot would do for his campsite, and settled himself for the night.

He gathered wood for a fire, and enough to keep it going, hopefully, through the night. Then, as the sun set and the Grimmwood grew dark, Quinn Wyndham settled himself against a tree. He ate  some food from his pack, and sat, watching his fire, until his eyelids grew leaden. 

Having layed out his bedroll, Quinn threw more wood on the fire, and then settled down for the night. Sleep came to him quickly, and he dreamed that he and the rattlebones were sparring on the village green under the critical gaze of Master Galt. 

* * * * *

Quinn woke the next morning, only vaguely remembering his dreams. He pissed on the ashes of his campfire, packed his things and continued on his way to Hart Hill.

The Grimmwood seemed more natural now than it had when Quinn first entered its shadows. He set a steady pace along the road, stopping when he felt tired.

A couple of hours later, Quinn encountered a stranger. The young man was dressed in the shapeless brown habit of a Church acolyte. He was sitting on the side of the road, munching contentedly on bread and cheese when he saw Quinn.

"Good morning," the acolyte said, warily.

"And to you," said Quinn. "Are you traveling to Hart Hill?"

The acolyte shook his head. His hair was dark blonde, cropped close to his skull. "No. Glint. How is the road behind you?"

"Safer now than it was, I think," said Quinn. "May I join you?"

The acolyte nodded, and Quinn stepped off the road and sank, gratefully, into the long grass. He was very aware of the acolyte watching him with cautious interest.

"My name is Peppin of the Order of St. Edgar in Stonemark."

"I'm Quinn Wyndham, a Messenger from Glint."

"You said something about the road behind you being safer?"

Quinn nodded and recounted his encounter with the rattlebones. Peppin's eyes were wide when he finished.

"That was very brave of you to fight it," said the acolyte. "I think most folk would have fled. I know that I would have."

"I probably should have," said Quinn. He showed Peppin his torn shirtsleeve. "At the least, I wouldn't have ripped my shirt."

"That's nothing a needle and thread can't mend," said the acolyte. "I suppose that I've been fortunate. I haven't encountered anything dangerous on my travels."

"So the road behind you is good?"

Peppin nodded. He and Quinn spent the next hour or so sharing a meal and talking to one another. Peppin, who had made the trip through the Grimmwood before offered some advice.

"If you run into any more rattlebones, my friend, you don't have to fight them. If you remain still and don't move, they'll walk right past you. They're blind as a bat and only attack creatures that move."

"I didn't know that," admitted Quinn. "Thank you."

Peppin smiled and struggled into his backpack. It was larger and looked heavier than Quinn's own. He wondered, mildly, what the acolyte was doing, heading to Glint? But he didn't want to be nosy, so did not ask questions. They stood, said their farewells, and continued on their separate ways.

An hour later, Quinn spotted something lying alongside the road. Bored, he went to investigate, and, to his surprise, discovered the object was a child's toy. It was a wooden top, its once bright paint now faded by time and elements to a dreary gray. Experimentally, Quinn tried to see if it still worked, but it did not. He left it where he'd found it, and continued on his way, wondering idly what had happened to the toy's owner? Had the child lost it while traveling this road? Had the little one been heartbroken? Or indifferent? Maybe the top hadn't been left, but deliberately abandoned?

Quinn continued along the road, but as he progressed deeper through the Grimmwood, he noticed that it seemed to be changing. The forest trees were growing closer together here, the canopy overhead thicker and heavier than it had been. Along some parts of the road, the sun did not penetrate at all, creating patches of darkness that made Quinn uneasy.

The day was getting along and he hoped that the forest would open up again before sunset. He did not think that he wanted to spend the night in this particular part of the Grimmwood. For that reason, he pushed on, not pausing at sunset, but walking along in the growing gloom.

Quinn was just starting to regret his decision to not stop, when he rounded a curve in the road and saw the distinct glow of a campfire just ahead.  He adjusted his backpack and approached warily.

"Hello?" Quinn called. "Is anyone there?"

"Who's that?" a gruff voice demanded from the shadows. "Who's there? Be warned. I'm armed."

Quinn raised his hands and remained where he stood.

"I mean no harm, stranger. I'm merely a traveler, heading to Hart Hill. My name is Quinn Wyndham. I'm a Messenger from Glint."

There was a  pause before the voice spoke again.

"Come closer then, into the light. Let me take a look at you."

Slowly, hands still held up and away from his sword, Quinn approached the fire. As he did, he saw a figure standing on the other side. He had an impression of height, but that was all he could make out. Aside from the crossbow leveled directly at him, held in strong, white hands.

"You don't look like a bandit," said the stranger.

"I'm not," said Quinn. "I promise."

The stranger snorted and lowered the crossbow. "Well, what's life without risk? Eh? Come. Sit by the fire."

Quinn stepped forward, and, as he did so, he realized that the person holding the crossbow was a woman. She was tall, almost six feet, he estimated, wearing a tattered cloak and a wide-brimmed slouch hat jammed onto her head. As he settled himself, cautiously, by the fire, the woman adjusted the brim of the hat and Quinn saw her face: round and freckled, with eyes the color of a cloudy gray sky and a wide expressive mouth.

"My name is Celesse, stranger," said the woman.  Her voice was deep, but had a friendlier tone to it. "Celesse Orman, from Hart Hill."

"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am," said Quinn. "Thanks for not shooting me."

Celesse snorted and moved the crossbow to the side. She was sitting on a log. It looked as if she had been in the middle of preparing her supper when Quinn had come upon her.

"It can be dangerous traveling this road," said the woman. She nodded at his sword. "You know how to use that, boy? Or is it just for show?"

"I can use it," said Quinn, and thought about telling her about his fight with the rattlebones, but Celesse just nodded.

"Good. You have food? I don't have much, but I can share if need be."

"No, I'm good. Thank you."

She grunted and went about preparing her meal, which consisted of dumping a packet of something dry into a small pot of water and shoving it into the fire.

"So, you're a Messenger."

"Yes, ma'am."

"That must be tiring."

"This is my first time," admitted Quinn.

Celesse grunted. She stirred her pot and Quinn saw that she wore thick brass rings on her fingers. He dreaded to think what it would be like to get punched by her.

"I travel this road more often than I'd like," said Celesse. "I got a sister in Glint who married a drunken layabout. I have to go check up on her at least once a month."

"What's your sister's name? Maybe I know her."

"Pallas. Her no-account husband is Gallo Fabian."

"Is he a laborer, in Master Fichard's warehouse?" asked Quinn.

"You know him?" Celesse asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

"No. Glint is small, but it's not that small. If you don't own a business or a farm, you probably work for Master Fichard."

Celesse nodded. "That's where he works. When he isn't there, he's at the tavern, drinking up the day's wages. Shiftless dog."

Quinn didn't know how to respond to that, so he changed the subject. "Are you married?"

"Nope," said Celesse. "Never saw the need. There's nothing a man could do for me that I couldn't do for myself. What about you? Got a wife?"

"No. It's just me. And my folks, I suppose."

"Enjoy them while you got them, boy. My ma and pa died a while back and there's not a week goes by I don't miss them."

Quinn shifted, slipping out of his backpack. He opened it and pulled out his bedroll and his rations for the day.

"So, what do you do in Hart Hill, ma'am?"

"I run a shop."

"You're a merchant?"

She nodded. "Born and bred.  Orman's Emporium, on Goose Street. Swing by when you get to town. Take a look around."

"What do you sell?"

"Little bit of everything," said Celesse. "Fabric and nails. Perfume and pitch. If I don't have it, I can get it or send you somewhere else to find it."

"You must be pretty successful if you can afford to close up shop to travel to Glint."

"I don't close up shop. I let my staff run the place."

"You must trust them a lot."

"I do. No point working with people you don't trust."

She grew silent as she pulled her pot out of the fire and peered into it. Celesse wrinkled her nose and put it aside to cool.

"Who are you delivering your message to? If you don't mind me asking."

"Mrs. Eugenia Marcus on Elk Street."

"Don't know her, but Elk Street is nice. You ever been to Hart Hill before, boy?"

"No, ma'am."

"Elk Street is where the hoity-toity rich folk live." Celesse rolled her eyes. "And not one of those folks is worth two coppers, as far as I'm concerned. Never done an honest bit of work in their lives."

"It must be nice to be rich though," said Quinn. "To not have to work like a dog all day."

"I'd be bored out of my mind," said Celesse. "Most of those folks are. I think that's why they're always having fancy parties and plotting against each other. I guess it gives them something to do with their time."

Quinn shrugged and tucked into his meager meal. For a while the camp site was quiet as he and Celesse ate their meals. Afterward, they chatted for a while, about Hart Hill and Glint. Eventually, Celesse began to yawn.

"Well, that's it, boy. I'm going to get some sleep. Wake me up in a few hours and I'll take over the watch."

Quinn nodded, unaware that he'd volunteered to man the first watch or that they were even doing watches. He supposed, however, that it made sense.

Celesse lay down on her bedroll, her back to the fire. Soon, the quite campsite was disturbed by the saw-like sounds of her snoring.

Quinn tried not to laugh. He turned his own back on the fire and peered into the Grimmwood, his shortsword close to hand.

* * * * *

Morning came, heralded by the shrill songs of unpleasant birds and a gravelly, unfamiliar voice raised in song.

Quinn rolled out of his bedroll, and sat up. "Miss Orman?"

"Here," said the big woman. She was moving about the campsite, packing up her things.

"Who's singing?" asked Quinn.

"Don't know," said Celesse. "But they can't carry a tune worth a goddamn."

Silently, Quinn agreed. He walked into the woods to relieve himself, then returned to the campsite and began packing up his own things.

By the time he had slipped on his backpack, Celesse had jammed on her hat and drawn her tattered cloak around her shoulders. She didn't have a pack, just a sort of fabric bag. She tucked her crossbow out of sight, beneath the cloak.

"Well, we're burning daylight, boy," she rumbled. "Best be off. I don't like the look of that sky. You get to Hart Hill, don't forget to go by my shop."

"Yes, ma'am," said Quinn. "I hope things are okay with your sister."

"Thank you," said Celesse.

They ambled to the road's edge, just in time to see the singer come into view. It was a woman, walking in the direction of Glint. She was old, gray-white hair spilling out from underneath a blue headscarf. She wore a long-sleeved white shirt and dark trousers rolled up to her knees. Her feet were bare and as she drew nearer they could see that her skin was brown as a berry. Big golden hoop earrings flashed from her ears and she carried a sack over one shoulder.

"Ahoy, there!" shouted the woman. Her voice was like gravel in a clay bowl. "A choice mornin' to ya, fellow wayfarers!"

"Good morning," called Quinn.

Celesse did the same, eyeing the newcomer with interest.

The old woman stopped in front of them and stood there, grinning at them.

"Been walkin' all night!" she crowed. "Thought I'd be through this damn wood by now! How much further to Glint?"

"Not much further," said Quinn.  "Maybe a day and a half from here."

"Bother!" The woman scowled. "I'm supposed to be in Edgewater Bay by tomorrow morning!"

"You're not going to make it," said Celesse, bluntly.

"Well, damn! I'll miss my ship!"

"You're a sailor?" asked Quinn.

The old woman grinned, revealing a mouth full of crooked white teeth. "Ingrid Rawson, at your service! Been sailin' the sea for over forty years, girl and woman!" Her smile slid away, replaced by a grimace. "I was supposed to sail out aboard the Snapdragon tomorrow. Guess that won't be happenin'!"

"Not even if you walked all night," said Celesse. "Edgewater Bay is two days from Glint, at least."

"Ah well!" Ingrid shrugged her skinny shoulders. "I'll find a berth somewhere!" She eyed them. "Either of you headin' toward Glint?"

"I am," said Celesse, cautiously.

"Mind if I keep you company, misses? Only, I ain't real happy walkin' through these gloomy woods by myself." Ingrid frowned. "All these trees give me the heebie-jeebies!"

Celesse shrugged. "Why not? I could use the company myself. Like I say, this road isn't always safe."

"Great!" said Ingrid. "Let's set sail, misses!"

And she grinned, wide and bright, and started to amble down the road. Celesse glanced at the old lady, and then looked at Quinn with a pained expression.

"Hope to see you around, boy. Safe travels."

With that, she adjusted the big brim of her slouch hat and started walking after the old sailor-woman. Quinn watched them go, trying not to grin. Then he shook his head and started out on his own way.

* * * * *

The forest remained dark and gloomy as Quinn followed the road to Hart Hill. The morning was uneventful. Hours passed and nothing of any interest happened until he rounded a curve in the road and spotted something peculiar.

There was the stump of a tree, near the road. Resting on the stump was something white and pink. As Quinn drew nearer, curious, despite himself, he saw that the object was a sea shell.

It was larger than his hand and just sitting on the stump, as if someone had left it there while they skipped off into the woods.

He thought of the old sailor-gal, Ingrid Rawson.  Could she have left the shell? It seemed plausible, at least.

Curious, Quinn picked up the shell. It was heavier than he'd expected and smooth as glass. The shell had a beautiful luster to it, even in the dim light that managed to penetrate the canopy in this part of the Grimmwood.

On impulse, Quinn placed the shell against his ear and blinked. He moved it away, frowning, then, carefully, placed it against his ear again.

He heard singing, coming from the shell. It was a woman's voice and she was singing some pretty, wordless song that Quinn didn't know.

This was unusual.

Quinn had been to the seashore. He had collected sea shells. He knew that if you pressed them against your ear, you didn't hear singing. You heard the dull echo of the sea's roar.

But this....this was not natural.

"I should put this back where I found it," he said aloud.

"I really should leave it here," said Quinn, slipping his pack off of his back. "Really."

Sighing resignedly, Quinn slid the shell into his backpack, then put it back on and continued down the road.

* * * * *

Time passed. The forest remained weirdly oppressive, the sun unable to fully penetrate the thick canopy. What light did manage to penetrate was filtered and turned greenish by the leaves and vegetation.  Occasionally, the wind would stir the branches, allowing a brilliant flash of true sunlight to happen and Quinn found himself looking forward, eagerly, to those moments.

Around mid-afternoon, he encountered a cart, heading in the direction of Glint. The cart was drawn by two large, gray horses. A fat old man sat on the buckboard, holding the reins in his hands. He had a finely shaved silver-white beard, sharp black eyes that swept over Quinn with cool calculation, and dark brown skin. His clothing was shabby, but Quinn noticed that the man wore a gold chain, tucked into his shirt.

Accompanying the cart were five armed guards. One was seated on the buckboard next to the driver, the other four plodding along on foot around the cart. They looked at Quinn with unabashed curiosity, but said nothing.

Quinn nodded at the little group, but did not speak. He pushed on, hoping that he would soon enter some less gloomy part of the forest.

* * * * *

The weather, which had been pleasant, began to change. The soft breeze became a strong wind, whipping the tree limbs into a frenzy and a misty rain began to fall. There were wildflowers now, growing in bright patches alongside the road. Little explosions of color that broke up the glistening, green monotony of the Grimmwood.

The wind continued to tear at the forest canopy, and the rain was now pouring down in thick sheets. 

"Oh to hell with this," declared Quinn, and stepped off the road, to shelter beneath one of the tall trees. He hunkered down between its prodigious roots, wrapped his arms around his knees and wished that he had thought to pack a cloak.

As it was, it looked as if it was going to be a miserable night.

Given the weather, he thought, briefly, about continuing along the road. But the road was rapidly turning into a muddy quagmire. He didn't relish the thought of slogging through it.

No, Quinn decided. I'll stay here, out of the wind and the worst of the rain.

Hopefully, it would be better tomorrow.

* * * * *

By morning, the worst of the storm seemed to have passed. The wind had died away, and the rain had been reduced to a miserable drizzle rather than a deluge.  Quinn was soaked to his skin, and feeling miserable. He checked that the letter in his pack was dry, then pulled on his backpack and headed out.  With any luck, he would clear the Grimmwood today and reach Hart Hill by nightfall.

The wide dirt road was a gloppy red mess and it was easier for Quinn to walk along the edge that on the actual road. He thought about the cart he had passed yesterday and wondered how those folks had fared overnight? And Celesse and Indra?

After a few hours, the rain stopped and the forest began to dry out. Ahead of him, Quinn saw an unexpected sight: a gigantic tree with a massive tunnel cut through it so that the road could simply pass through it. He regretted now that he hadn't pressed on last night. At least the tree-tunnel would have offered greater protection from the storm.

The forest canopy began to thin out past the giant tree. Sunlight poured through the branches. Steam rose from the damp earth. 

Quinn spotted a faded poster, nailed to a tree. He stopped to study it.

The poster was very old. Worn. Tattered. Faded. But he could still read it. It was a wanted poster, offering a reward of 40g for the head of Indara the Bandit Queen.

Quinn continued on his way, wondering if anyone had ever collected the reward? Or had the Bandit Queen quietly retired with all of her ill-gotten gains, to live out her golden years in comfort? Or maybe she'd met her doom, been caught and hung by the neck from some gallows somewhere? 

It was a grim thought but it distracted Quinn from his muddy feet and grumbling belly, as he marched beside the road through the Grimmwood.

The afternoon wore on. The air grew hot and muggy. Around Quinn, the landscape changed as well. The earth had become swampy and the air reeked of wet, rotting things. It was difficult to tell where the muddy road ended and the swampy ground began. Quinn gave up trying to avoid the mud and marched along the center of the wide road.

After a couple more hours, the swampy land had given way to solid earth and the forest seemed more open and bright. Quinn could smell damp grass. The sun was starting to sink beneath the horizon and he started looking for a place to camp for the night.  He found a spot and was pleased to discover a babbling freshwater brook nearby.

He tried starting a campfire, but all the wood was still too damp to burn. Resigned, Quinn shrugged and set out his bedroll on the driest patch of grass he could find. He dug out the last of his meager rations and ate them, watching the light fade and the moon climb into the sky. Eventually, he pulled his blanket around himself and drifted to sleep.

* * * * *

Quinton woke up the next morning, achy and tired. He packed his things together and pulled his pack onto his back. His feet ached. His belly was empty. He looked forward to getting to Hart Hill today, delivering the letter, getting a meal and finding somewhere to sleep. And if he had the time, he'd even find Goose Street and check out Orman's Emporium. He wondered. If he mentioned that he sort of knew the owner, would they give him a deal on a cloak? Somehow, Quinn doubted it.

* * * * *

He strode along the road. This morning's weather was pleasant, especially after the last few days. There was a soft breeze and the air was cool and dry. Around him, the Grimmwood grew thinner and thinner and then, rounding a bend in the road, the Grimmwood ended.

Startled, Quinn turned and saw that the trees on this side also had frightening faces. Curious, he approached one and saw that the faces actually seemed to be growing out of the trees. He wondered how that had happened? Some wizard's spell? Some kind of curse? A warning to stay away from the forest itself?

He shook his head and turned his back on the trees and the Grimmwood. Returning to the road, he spotted a young fellow approaching. Even from this distance, Quinn could spot the traveling pack strapped to the man's back. As he drew nearer, Quinn saw that the man was young and clean-shaven, curly fair hair tucked beneath an ill-fitting cap, dark brown eyes moving nervously over the Grimmwood's border trees.

"Good morning," said Quinn, taking the chance to stop and rest his aching legs.

The young man stopped and Quinn realized that the fellow was probably about his age.

"Good morning. Have you come through the Grimmwood, fellow?"

"I have," said Quinn.

"Was it as frightening as they say?"

"It had its moments," admitted Quinn. "But it wasn't all bad. I met other travelers and saw some things that I wouldn't normally see."

The youth frowned. "But there were monsters?"

"Well," admitted Quinn, "one monster. A rattlebones."

The young man went pale. "Really?"

"It's all right," said Quinn. He introduced himself. "If you meet a rattlebones, just stay still until they pass. They don't bother things that don't move."

"I'll try to remember that," said the youth. "I'm Hans, by the way. Hans Potterson."

"You're going to Glint?"

"Near there," said Hans. "My uncle's farm."

His eyes darted to the forest again, nervously.

"Well, I'd better get going."

"Hey," said Quinn, "it's not as bad as you think it's going to be."

"I suppose I'll find out," said Hans.

He gave a wan smile to Quinn, adjusted his heavy pack, and started down the road, into the forest.

Quinn watched him vanish into the Grimmwood's shadows, then turned and started walking. After the last few days, it felt odd to be walking in open air, past farmers' fields. The land rolled gently, and the road snaked around hills, branching off toward mysterious destinations.

Maybe I'll find out where they go someday, thought Quinn.

There was more traffic on the road the closer he got to Hart Hill. At one point, he was offered a ride on the back of a farmer's wagon and happily accepted the offer. That was how he arrived at Hart Hill, riding in the back of a wagon, among bushel baskets filled with early spring vegetables.

RASEGO

The blade gleams, like moonlight on water, as Rasego moves through the forms. 

She does not have to think about the forms, tey are imprinted on her muscles, her nerves. Sometimes, she wonders if the movements have etched themselves onto her very soul, but she does not linger on such thoughts. Thinking of souls, of the afterlife, leads to thinking about the future, and the now is most important.

Live in the moment, Master Anilor told her, because you may not have another.

Wise words, but not an excuse to live an intemperate life. So many other of Master Anilor's students misunderstood and took paths of decadent pleasure that led to ruin.

Not her.

Rasego understood what the master had truly meant.

The past is gone. Untouchable.

The future is unknown.

The now is everything.

Behind her, a twig snaps. Rasego drops and spins, extending her blade.Its edge rips through leather and flesh. A spray of blood paints the grass. The stink of ruptured bowls foul the air.

The man falls, dead before he hits the grass.

Some part of Rasego's mind takes note of his black leather armor, even as the greater part notes the other assassins moving forward.

Two of them. Men. Experienced fighters. Dressed all in black.  One spins a golden chain with a weighted barb on its end. The other wields twin blades. Neither makes a sound.

Gold Chain attacks, unleashing his weapon from a distance, perhaps hoping to ensnare her sword. Twin Blades moves at the same time, darting forward, striking quick.

She can appreciate their tactics, although she thinks that neither has very good form.

Rasego steps forward and slips under the golden chair, moves through the form known as Stalking Cat, before slipping into Tall Mountain to block the two blades.

The men fight as a team, as a coordinated unit.  Fighting them is almost like fighting one creature with two bodies.

She slips from Tall Mountain to Crawling Serpent to Leaves On The Wind.

Her blade cleaves Twin Blades's head from his shoulders. It rolls across the manicured lawn, as the remainder of the body falls over, twitching.

Gold Chain's body language changes. Fear makes him twitch and whirl his weapon through a complex series of movements. He takes a step back, and Rasego knows she has already won.

She slips into Tall Mountain, and regards her opponent.

"Leave," she says.

He flicks his wrist and the golden chain coils about his arm.

"They said you were old and weak," says the assassin.

Rasego smiles. "They were wrong."

The man inclines his head, then steps back and seems to melt into the night's shadows.

Rasego maintains Tall Mountain for a few breaths, until she is sure he is gone, then lowers her blade.

The moonlit lawn is wet with blood. The dead men lie where they fell, fouling the air. Her muscles ache with exertion.   She cleans her blade and walks toward the house.

This is her life.

This is the now.

 

Crossquarters

The darkness recedes.

Now, we turn towards the light,

waiting for the dawn.