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A tired tailor sits in her workshop starting at the pile of hides before her.
It is early in the morning and she has yet to sleep, her work has taken all her time. To one side lies a much larger
pile of leather armour the remains of their making strewn around the floor. She picks up a hide and beings the work
on a set of sleeves. Her mind drifts elsewhere to deepwater and a little house by the sea where Dardan may well be.
The needle sensing this moment of distraction decides her finger would be more suited to it than the leather and
draws blood bringing her mind back to her work. She traces her finger on the armour murmuring softly words of power.
The armour begins to softly glow, its form infused with magic. Slowly the glow fades.
....
The next thing she notices, is the cry of the birds on top of the abbey.
"Yew? This can't be right."
She looks up at the sky; the sun has reached its peak and the peasants in the field taking a well-earned
break to eat their meagre midday meals. She realises that she has a fleck of blood on her shirt and her small
supply of reagents has been depleted. Panic strikes as she tries to remember what should have been several hours
of hard work, but her mind can only remember the dawn that morning. Worried she sets off on the long walk to
deepwater where her friends and her love await.
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Stories
