well met

Through the longish hair that fell into his eyes, Taerith looked across the fire into the face of a strange little man who seemed to have sprung up out of the sunrise. Grey, wizened hair floated around the little man's temples; his eyes twinkled, matched by the glittering of a gold earring that flared in the meagre morning light. He sat cross-legged with a grey blanket across his knees.

Taerith's hand searched the ground for his sword, and the little man chuckled--a breathless chuckle. He whisked the grey blanket aside and held up Taerith's sword, still in its scabbard--still attached to his belt, which was no longer around its master's waist.

"Looking for this?" the man asked.

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Read Chapter One of Taerith by Rachel Starr Thomson