A Homecoming

Leaves and deadfall crunch beneath the hooves of the huge destrier as it picks its way between trunks in the dim light beneath the canopy. After six months beneath the ground, the sounds and smells of the forest seem alien to Kamar as she sits atop the great beast, still uneasy in the saddle despite years of patient instruction from Sweet. The Order’s Master of Horse was a good teacher, but Kamar had always been happier on her own feet, and she’d never had the affinity for the animals that some of her comrades seemed to have. Ahead of her, Danton pulls his horse up, gesturing with a gloved hand over to their left.

“Loggers, probably working for that Amnian fellow. Won’t be long now.”

Kamar nods, her long, beaded braids clicking like knucklebones as she does. The Tiefling turns his horse and continues, knowing better by now than to wait for any more response than that. The huge horse snorts as Kamar tugs at the reigns, trying to pull him round to face the direction of travel. After a little negotiation he relents, and begins plodding after the others. The half orc woman lets her mind wander back to her time in Vorsthold, the horrors they faced and the friends they lost. She had quickly come to respect the dwarves for their bravery, their pragmatism, and their profound disinterest in making conversation with her. Danton had tried many times to ingratiate himself with their hosts, but Kamar had no desire to become friends with the Vorstborn. She respected them, and learned much from her time defending the Thunder Gate, but she did not like them. The feeling, she suspected, was mutual.

The light begins to change slowly, then all at once, the cool shadow of the Feythorn Forest replaced by bright afternoon sunlight. The trees thin and before she knows it, the whole of the Dawnlands stretches out before her. In the distance she can see the sprawling slums of South Daring, and rising behind them, the great stone wall that protected the city. Even from this distance it appears mottled, the damage wrought by the Green Tide still apparent in patches of newer masonry. The faint sound of bells from the Temple of Waukeen is carried on the breeze, and the smell of smoke from thousands of fireplaces makes her nostrils twitch. Slowly, for the first time in months, her grey-green skin splits in a broad smile.