Lun and Abethel
The Enclave > Known Roads > Mirael

Poor ale, yes, Neth leather on the wall turns your guts, the wind blows through the walls, but don't be calling her a crone. Abethel's her name and if your spear was nocked as mine, you'd see the look she gave you. A generation ago you'd be spilling your blood atop the dirt, like as not. Best watch where you sleep tonight.

Hah! This place is rotten meat that won't fade, and us as flies in winter. Neth, they make you sick to even think of, and here we set down spears, drunk on bad ale in filth and cold. You can't stand it, but mark my words, you'll be back just as sure as Neth when leaves fall. Old cursed Lun, he's just another gobbet on the whole rotting pile, deserves worse still he does. Abethel, now though, she rode with Tean.

Why? You're not going to understand, not until you've Neth blood on your spear. Not until your father looks like that and you're staring at your own path ahead. Not until you find and lose a wife. Abethel was as hard and sharp a spear as you'll ever see, just ask the old priests at the Keep. Her here with Lun, like this ... like this, look around you! That's just how it is.

No, no more. Drink your King's-cursed ale I paid good coin for. The morrow is to the Odan Bridge again, and that's too soon for my liking. A drink to this rotten pit of a tavern and freezing ourselves on the River Road!

[ Posted by Reason on April 23, 2005 ]