his mouth, but his normal, stalwart countenance altered it into a grimace. He wished he could be more like her. The faith that she held in her god, in the completion of their quest, and seemingly in him strengthened Whitlock, even if he was unable to really express such things in words. He saw her as everything that was good in the world, which needed protection by people like him. It was his duty, and he would not shirk it. Duty, steadfastness, and obligation were his gods.
Whitlock wiped sweat from his brow, and readjusted himself in the saddle. He scanned around, always looking for danger.
When they began the trip from Archendale three days earlier, Whitlock had convinced Melann to don a leather jerkin for a modicum of protection. A brown traveling cloak covered most of the armor, but not a wooden amulet bearing Chauntea’s symbol—a flower surrounded by a sunburst—displayed prominently at her chest. Melann’s faith was her strength, and indeed it allowed her to perform great feats when she called on the power of her patron. That faith, however, also led her to believe that Chauntea would provide her with everything she needed. Whitlock knew that most of the time you had to take care of yourself.
The sound of his glistening chain mail lightly jingling with each step of his mount constantly reminded him of the dangers all around him and the need for protection. He noted each tree, each bend in the road, with careful consideration. Their father had taught him that the spot that appeared safest was actually the best spot for an ambush.
“The people of the Dales,” his father used to say, “didn’t survive so near dangers like the Zhentarim and Myth Drannor by being trusting. We go through life with our eyes open.”
Now, riding into these mysterious elven woods, his sister’s safety was his responsibility. Their quest weighed heavily on Whitlock’s shoulders.
Melann’s long dark hair, tied away from her face in a practical manner, pulled free of the bond a few strands at a time with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. They both had been told that there was a strong familial resemblance between the two of them, but of course Whitlock’s hair was much shorter, and for the last few years he’d worn a short-cropped beard. Whitlock had never let himself think much of women and feminine beauty, but he imagined that other men might find his sister attractive. Usually Melann’s hands and clothes were covered in fresh dirt, as she spent most of her time helping farmers with their crops or in her own garden. Perhaps if she didn’t concern herself with things like that so much, Whitlock thought, she would be married.
Now only the dust of the road covered Melann’s hands and clothes. The journey they had been forced into did not allow for the luxury of tending to plants, nor did it take them near too many tilled fields. Only the dust of the road soiled either of them. The two rode in silence, as they had for much of the journey.Both held their mouths in tight expressions, and their eyes hung heavy and low. Still, Whitlock took Melann’s praise to her goddess as a sign of unswerving faith and optimism.
The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended. Now, as darkness slowly overcame the light of day, Whitlock grew even more wary. The seriousness of the mission that drove them on made him reluctant to speak, but his silence fostered the cloud of gloom that hung over them as surely as the ancient curse they struggled against hung over their family.
The town of Essembra supposedly lay on this road, and he’d planned on their reaching it by nightfall.
“Did you hear that?” Melann asked softly.
“No,” he replied. Her voice broke through Whitlock’s silent reverie. He’d heard nothing. Still, caution was always prudent.
“I thought I heard a voice,” Melann said, her voice still low. “As though someone called out from far away.”
At that moment a deep,
Whitlock wiped sweat from his brow, and readjusted himself in the saddle. He scanned around, always looking for danger.
When they began the trip from Archendale three days earlier, Whitlock had convinced Melann to don a leather jerkin for a modicum of protection. A brown traveling cloak covered most of the armor, but not a wooden amulet bearing Chauntea’s symbol—a flower surrounded by a sunburst—displayed prominently at her chest. Melann’s faith was her strength, and indeed it allowed her to perform great feats when she called on the power of her patron. That faith, however, also led her to believe that Chauntea would provide her with everything she needed. Whitlock knew that most of the time you had to take care of yourself.
The sound of his glistening chain mail lightly jingling with each step of his mount constantly reminded him of the dangers all around him and the need for protection. He noted each tree, each bend in the road, with careful consideration. Their father had taught him that the spot that appeared safest was actually the best spot for an ambush.
“The people of the Dales,” his father used to say, “didn’t survive so near dangers like the Zhentarim and Myth Drannor by being trusting. We go through life with our eyes open.”
Now, riding into these mysterious elven woods, his sister’s safety was his responsibility. Their quest weighed heavily on Whitlock’s shoulders.
Melann’s long dark hair, tied away from her face in a practical manner, pulled free of the bond a few strands at a time with each rhythmic bounce of the horse. They both had been told that there was a strong familial resemblance between the two of them, but of course Whitlock’s hair was much shorter, and for the last few years he’d worn a short-cropped beard. Whitlock had never let himself think much of women and feminine beauty, but he imagined that other men might find his sister attractive. Usually Melann’s hands and clothes were covered in fresh dirt, as she spent most of her time helping farmers with their crops or in her own garden. Perhaps if she didn’t concern herself with things like that so much, Whitlock thought, she would be married.
Now only the dust of the road covered Melann’s hands and clothes. The journey they had been forced into did not allow for the luxury of tending to plants, nor did it take them near too many tilled fields. Only the dust of the road soiled either of them. The two rode in silence, as they had for much of the journey.Both held their mouths in tight expressions, and their eyes hung heavy and low. Still, Whitlock took Melann’s praise to her goddess as a sign of unswerving faith and optimism.
The narrow path cut through the ancient trees in a wilderness neither really fully comprehended. Now, as darkness slowly overcame the light of day, Whitlock grew even more wary. The seriousness of the mission that drove them on made him reluctant to speak, but his silence fostered the cloud of gloom that hung over them as surely as the ancient curse they struggled against hung over their family.
The town of Essembra supposedly lay on this road, and he’d planned on their reaching it by nightfall.
“Did you hear that?” Melann asked softly.
“No,” he replied. Her voice broke through Whitlock’s silent reverie. He’d heard nothing. Still, caution was always prudent.
“I thought I heard a voice,” Melann said, her voice still low. “As though someone called out from far away.”
At that moment a deep,
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