A Collection of Gingers

for Salka

POSTED: Sat Jul 13, 2019 11:41 pm

The shadow of the golden eagle overhead moved in lazy circles above the treetops, feathers comingling with the dancing patterns of leaves that littered the grass on the way back to camp. The crackling of parchment no longer bothered Lirael as Tamlin looked over his charcoal drawings of Fort Louisbourg, chewing on his own tongue as he did so. Whenever he saw something that needed changing, he would press the parchment onto the leather of the saddle in front of him, attempting to smudge out any mistakes and redraw things to his imagining. Even without his gold-furred hands on the reins, the buckskin mare he rode maintained a direct course back to New Caledonia. It had been a busy day for all three of them, and even Lirael had done her part: when he had entered some buildings, she had wandered down the prairie where the wild horses were grazing. Though at first they had been shy, she was a beautiful mare—when Tamlin had come back for her, she had been grazing prettily among them, and the stallion had chuffed and stamped his hoof when she had come to Tamlin’s whistle.

Maybe I’ll catch that ghost yet, he thought, eyeing the white mare that had escaped his grasp before. Regardless, it hadn’t been the goal that day. He had set course for home, and now the late summer sun flashed red in the sky. The beautiful fields of Gaspesia had turned to the wilderness of the Miramichi, and now home was in sight. He wore his normal tunic, though it had been too hot for the cape, and as always his arrows lay across his back and his bow secured where he could reach it.

It had been a long time since he had been threatened by soldiers, but one doesn’t forget it easily.

The scent of home filled his nostrils, and he heard Sabriel cry out as she circled higher in the sky, likely heading off for some alone time. He whistled his own goodbye, shoving the maps he had been working on back in his satchel before dismounting the horse. “You did such a good job today Lyra, yes you did,” he growled lowly to the mare, her lips wiggling as she attempted to snatch his hair as he pulled away to camp.

At last, the tents of New Caledonia, and home. Tamlin Anor’s green eyes darted about for his friends—for Fennore, for Iomair, for Athras—but he found no one he knew. Instead, a tall woman stood alone, his thin face likely as surprised as his own to see her there. Flabbergasted, the Caledonian scout made no motions to go forward, but Lirael did not hesitate. Caring not at all about the stranger, the mare made her way to the edge of territory that Tamlin had reserved for his own bedding, arching her neck to pull down a tender leaf on the way. “Ah, hello.” He stated, stupidly.
New Caledonia
The Sunwarden
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Becky
Luperci

Canon