Greetings Weekend Warrior Writers and Readers:
Meryk glanced downstreet and saw the bowman leaning against the wall of the blacksmith’s shed. The watchman’s lamp hung from a nearby post and offered dubious safety. Eyes closed, head tipped back–even in the darkness, the clean lines of his face urged Meryk forward for a closer look.
You’re boy-struck, you are.
Arms wrapped around himself, dressed in rags–trews, shirt, short cloak, and shivering. A youngish man, perhaps twenty-three winters, about as many as Meryk believed he himself had. Short black hair, a few days growth of beard–his frame not as lean as Meryk’s own and taller by an inch or so. Sinewy, an archer-type, though again, the empty quiver.