Nen Harn

     Ganiago’s first few days out in the wide world proved rather uneventful. The finest provisions available for purchase in Archet filled his pack, promising that many future days of exploration would pass on a full belly. Strolling merrily along with his walking stick, and with nothing besides that and a small dagger to protect himself with, Ganiago whistled as he wandered under the branches of Chetwood.

She'd crossed that bridge dozens of times before. The Trestlespan was strong and sturdy, and its wooden walls hid most of the ravine below it from view.

A rare stroke of fortune struck me not long ago. 

Aren had been struggling with communicating in the last year of his life, on account of his newly acquired lack of voice. Once he had been a very talkative young man, happy to chat about anything with anyone. But when that was taken away, he became a much different person. He started off writing messages to people, using the little book he carried tucked into his belt. It was an adequate tool, unless the other person couldn’t read. Then there were other problems with it.

The fire crackled the skin of the rabbit roasting on the spit, the small it of fat sizzling and bubbling. Gwennol shifted it away from the flames as it started to scorch and then sat back down, tossing some small bits of raw meat to Cysgod who opened his beak to snatch them out of the air. The shadows danced on the crumbling stone walls that surrounded her camp site and she could see the moon reflecting of the still waters of Nen Harn. Gwennol looked up at a sharp rawk sound from the craban who moved to perch on her shoulder.