∴ A Force of Nature ∴
The scent of the earth is dark, damp and fragrant with herbs and minerals. Dappled sunlight plays against closed eyelids as a symphony of dry beech leaves rises to answer the whispering breeze. You smile at the sound, but do not stir.
Sprawled on a moss-shrouded bank, you feel stones and roots pressing into your spine. Theirs is a welcome caress, as you stretch your road-weary limbs. Tomorrow you’ll reach the city, if all goes well. There will be tourneys, feasts and a warm bed to return to. But somehow, here, in your earth-rich bower, you cannot relish the thought.
Sighing, you press yourself up from the soil and take your longstick in your hands. Your fingers play over the knots and whorls in its dense bark. You wonder what the knights and ladies of the court will make of such a weapon. Crossguard it has not, nor jewel-encrusted pommel – but it is a good stick.
Yes. It is a good stick.