Arenea-Moonstar

Ryeth awoke slowly the next morning, to the comfort of her mother's extra blanket and the warm kitchen fire beside her. Amathale had hastily dragged her pallet into the main room of the house so she could keep a better eye on her daughter, and because it was much warmer in there. Ry kept her eyes closed as she snuggled deeper into the blankets, not wanting to break the spell of sleep, but her nose suddenly picked up the smell of frying bacon, and she sat up. Ama was there, peeling slices of the meat off a small slab and dropping them into the pan that rested over the cook-fire. 'Good morning,' she greeted her daughter, 'How are we?' 'Bac

She didn't move for a long while, and was dimly aware of the door to her room opening and closing softly. It could be her mother, it could be another monster. She was past caring. A warm hand came to gently rest of her back. So it was her Ma. She didn't think she was capable of sobbing any more, but she was wrong. As she felt the knowing touch of unconditional love she broke into fit of rough, sobbing coughs. 'You kept the sword, didn't you?' She said the words so easily, her soft, soothing voice making them seem almost acceptable. Ryeth nodded, sitting clumsily, turning her tear stained face unwillingly towards her mother. She was so a

She practically skipped along the path back to her house, the sword still in her hands and a whole gold piece in her pocket. She was so happy she almost ran straight into the house before she remembered that even the glinting gold coin wouldn't allay her mother's fears of the sword's magic. The small cottage she and her mother shared was single storied, made of rough wood, but made well. The windows had two sets of shutters, the inner covered in thin stretched hide that let the light in but kept the wind out, and the second of wooden planking for when it was really cold. It had only three rooms, one serving as their kitchen and living area,

The well trodden path that led into the village was peaceful. The sun hung in a cloudless blue sky, and birds cheeped to one another amiably. The girl that left a small house to join the path, on the other hand, was far from tranquil. She shouted back to someone in the house as she slammed the door, clutching a long, cloth wrapped object to her chest. Red faced with barely contained rage, she stomped down the yard, past a coop of chickens clucking disgruntledly at the disturbance. She scowled at them as she passed through the front gate. The girl looked to be about fifteen; her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and held there with a thin st

The man was old. How old, no one could say, but 'very old' was accurate enough. He was the one the village came to for stories because he knew all the best ones about the Demon Wars, and though he had never claimed to be alive when they happened, for that was borderline ridiculous, he told the stories so well it was as good as a firsthand account. He had told every story he knew, more than once, to those who came asking. All bar one. 'Tell us one we haven't heard,' a member of his latest audience asked, a young man of about nineteen. The old man gave them a long, measuring look. It was a small audience, three women and two men, at a guess