Wintersday of 1298 AE. A ceasefire treaty had been called between the sieging charr forces and the men of Ebonhawke.
Seneca and Kira were laughing, drinking around the campfire, when a zing in the air cut off one of the voices.
Seneca watched, in disbelief, as her warmate fell dead. A human gang, armed to the teeth, surrounded and trained on her.
“Should have known mice can't keep a truce,” she growled.
“Hell with the truce. Ol' Jack pays 10 gold each charr pelt we bring 'im. Sometimes more if got as good a skin as yours.” The leader sneered.
No comments:
Post a Comment