“Hand of Night” J. Stevland – Round 1

Nestled among old oaks, the cabin sat deep in shadow and rumor. No sun balm graced  the walls. The protective vine and its pale blooms were nowhere in evidence and yet the smallish building appeared in good repair with sturdy walls and a moss free roof beneath a straight and unmarred chimney. Even in these times, it was not the residence one would  imagine belonging to an elderly woman eschewing the society of others. 

It matched the descriptions whispered by the locals over the occasional ale when Dorn found himself staying a night at the nearby town. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman  sitting in the back of his wagon. In the shade of the trees, the scars running down the side of her  face and neck appeared darker and more prominent than the vast network of wrinkles etched  across her visage. 

Warrior, some posited: the dark ones more wary of her than she was of them. Dorn  found this difficult to reconcile with the frail woman shifting uneasily beside the kegs of cider. He’d been born into a time of relative peace, prosperity and expansion, where tales of the night  terror’s assaults were the province of retired soldiers and painful memories. However, it was no  less crazy and inviting trouble to live in the woods alone.  

Grass and dead leaves choked the old wheel ruts into complete obscurity for the last ten meters, but he drove until he was near the door before pulling on the reins. Clyde stopped with  a pronounced snort and a shake of his thick head. Bracing herself against the nearest barrel,  Gowan hoisted herself up with a soft grunt and an unsteady step. Dorn jumped down from the  driver’s bench, hurrying to the back to give her a hand down. 

Her leg crumpled as she stepped down and Dorn half caught her amidst falling. It took a  few heartbeats for Gowan to get her legs underneath her and right herself with a heavy sigh.