David trudged back from University through the narrow streets and alleyways of the Dockside Quarter of Logansburg, capital city of Arien.  His scholar’s robe was carefully rolled and stowed in his pack, and he always changed from his good blue coat to the old brown one with the patched sleeves before he headed back to the flat.  No point standing out more than he already did.  He’d almost managed to shed his Shandorian accent; his friends at University told him he only sounded like a peasant from the provinces, now.  It was perfectly acceptable, in Dockside, to sound like a peasant.  A foreigner, however, or someone stupid enough to put on airs by attending University . . . Continue reading “Shandor, Year 676, David Lindmer”

At first sight, the man in the tree might have been mistaken for a scarecrow.  Gavin Sheridan was the tallest man in Greendale and possessed the sort of body the charitable might term “loosely built.”  His ears were a size too big, his nose beaky and amiable, and his smile was set on crooked.  Angles that ought to have been flinty were turned to gum-rubber by his grin.  Straw colored curls crowned the scarecrow image, and the outgrown clothing confirmed it.  Today, with the acquisition of a new title, the grin had become permanently entrenched.

Captain Sheridan.  It has a good ring to it, Gavin decided.  And folk thought I’d not amount to anything. In addition to being a half-savage, a clever rider, and downright learned, he had become a captain through blind luck.  Having studied some military history, Gavin did not find this sequence unusual.  He grinned and, with a good swing, climbed higher into the tree.  He needed a point from which to aim. Continue reading “Shandor, Year 676, Gavin Sheridan”