TT: D&D

    Barnaby knew the woodcutter’s boy was a coward, so he pulled him aside and told him to run if things went astray.  Of course, the burley cub tried to smile confidently, even though his ears were flat against his skull.  He hefted his ax, brandishing the rusted tool with bravado.  At only sixteen, the bear still towered over his companion.

    “You underestimate my kind, old man,” the boy said, “we inherit the strength and bravery of our fathers, and our fathers before them.  I am afraid of nothing.”

    The lynx scowled.  Thirty-seven did not deserve him the title of ‘old man.’  Glaring hard at the cub he snatched the ax from his paws with surprising quickness.  The black bear recoiled, the smile faltering from his face.  Barnaby examined the tool, swinging it lightly with one paw.  The head wobbled loosely, and he found the handle splintering at one end.  The thing was more likely to kill its wielder than anyone else.  He flipped it around, handing it back to the cub—Lance, if he remembered his name correctly.  The ax drooped in his paws.

    “Ever swung this at something other than a tree?” he asked.  He already knew the answer.

    Lance sighed and looked at the ground, as if expecting a disciplinary smack on his muzzle.  The boy looked pitiful, his body bulging underneath the leather gear from the town armory.  It was at least two sizes too small—probably meant for a stag.

    “No…”

    Barnaby glanced at the other two members of the group who were slowly making their way ahead, sticking to the shade to avoid the summer heat.  Turning his attention back to Lance, he gripped the bear’s paws, wrapping them around the hilt and squeezing firmly.

    “If you have to swing it, swing like you’re chopping a tree.  No sense in trying to act like a soldier if you haven’t been on the battlefield.  Make sure to follow through, put power into it with your back and legs, but not so much that you lose your balance.  That just opens you up for an easy kill.”

    Lance took in the knowledge with a solemn appreciation.

    “But,” the lynx said, tugging the ax to make sure he had his companion's attention, “if this goes wrong and we have to fight, I want you to promise me that you’ll run if I tell you.”

    They stared at each other until Lance nodded, tightening his grip on the weapon.

    “I will,” he said quietly, and the two made their way back to the group.

    Barnaby took the distance to enjoy the summer weather.  The land had just broken through the cusp of spring, and the sights and smells of nature came out in force.  He could smell red-nettles and saint Agathas, as well as snapdragons and daisies, all mixing with the crispness of wild grass.  They made a hazy scent that sat pleasantly in his nostrils.  A songbird flew overhead, singing shrilly.  The lynx let his eyes close as his paws sank into the damp earth.  He found himself thinking back to the town meeting that started this whole mess.

   

    It had been an early morning gathering, the sun’s yellow face barely peeking over the mountains.  Bleary-eyed folk grumbled as they shuffled through the town, filing into the town hall, yawning the sleep from their heads.  The mayor, Royland Highhorn, waited at the end of the room, tight lips and narrow eyes set on his face in angry contemplation.  Two massive horns curled out of his head with intimidating symmetry.  His face looked almost sinister as the sun rose behind him, casting hard shadows over his eyes.  He was tapping his hoof against the table impatiently.  Barnaby had never seen the old ram so lively.  Beside the mayor stood a nervous looking rabbit, his ears twitching against his back.  A sack filled with something Barnaby couldn’t make out slouched to the side.  The rabbit kept glancing over at the Highhorn, waiting for a cue.  The two animals slipped words to each other under the murmuring crowd, and the old ram held up a hoof.  The room hushed.

Clearing his throat, the mayor stamped the table as he stood, his eyes wandering the crowd to make sure he had their attention.  His thin irises seemed to take in everything at once.  The lynx felt sick dread snake its way into his stomach before Highhorn spoke.

“Our crops are being drained,” he said.

At that, the rabbit hoisted up the sack beside him, spilling its contents over the table.  Thousands of tiny brown pellets fell out of the bag, scattering over the surface.  A tide of gasps washed over the crowd, followed by a wave of concerned cries.  The mayor invited those in front to examine the deformed vegetation.

“This single bag contains a fifth of our summer crops, all of which has been reduced to…this.  A blight is spreading through our food, thieving the vitality straight from the roots,” he stated, “and it’s no mystery who is behind this.

“I have decided to give the briar witch two choices; leave, or die.”

The old ram did not waver in the slightest at the outburst from the crowd.  There were a few shouts of approval, but they were drowned out by an ocean of confusion.

“Why would she do this?  We’ve done what she asked.  Nobody’s been in her territory for two years!” shouted someone.

The lynx tried not to let his ears flatten at that.  The ram stamped his hoof against the table like a gavel, the sharp crack cutting through the air.

“Her reasons behind her transgressions are not of my concern.  I am, however, proposing that a small group deliver our ultimatum.  This will require a few brave souls to volunteer.”

The idea struck the crowd like an arrow to the chest.  The motivation behind the mayor’s proposal was clear—to see if the witch was powerful enough that they would have to request aid from the king’s band of clerics, an act that would take months to complete if carried out.  Months they would not have if the blight spread.

Barnaby raised a lone paw into the air, his arm sprouting bravely above the crowd.