New Shoes

“No”

Tuevel’s sending is flat and unequivocal. The great Silver Stag stands tall in the training yard, antlers topping the peaked red-tile roof of the compound. His mossy green eyes have a distinctly frosty set to them. Varis suppresses a smile, closing his eyes and dropping his head. When he raises it again to meet his friend’s gaze, his face is serene.

“Arael’tan, you must trust me. I know you are strong and fast, but with these-“

His words are cut off by a derisive snort.

“Fast and strong? These words do not encapsulate me.”

The great beast rears onto his hind legs, the sun flashing off the silver of his pelt and his eyes like green fire.

“I am a child of the Shee Rûn. My hooves are lightning, my step the breath of the wind. Mortals quake at the thunder of my approach, and with me rides death and righteous retribution for all those who would harm the innocent. I am the protector of the weak and the brother of he who slays gods and demons alike. Would you call the sea strong? Would you call the river in flood fast? Remember to whom you speak Lyth’ath Tel’Vandor!”

His hooves crash into the hard-packed earth of the yard with a sound like falling boulders, kicking up a sheet of dust. From the stables, Sweet emerges, hair plastered to her forehead and brow bent in consternation.

“What in Nine Hells is going on out here?!”

Tuevel rounds on her, drawing himself up to his full height.

“Silence, Kelytha’bhen! You speak to one of the immortal protectors of truth and justice.”

Sweet seems utterly unphased to be shouted at by a fifteen-foot-tall mythical beast. She raises an eyebrow, taking a step forward.

“Well, would you mind protecting truth and justice a little more quietly? You’re startling the horses.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turns on her heel and walks back into the stables, muttering under her breath as she goes. Tuevel stands for a moment, baffled and rather deflated at being so roundly dismissed. Looking over one shoulder to where his friend stands, he notices an uncharacteristic twitch at the corner of Varis’ mouth. More, the Grandmaster seems to be quietly shaking, and sweating rather more than the weather can account for. Just as the Stag is about to ask his friend what is wrong, the floodgates burst and the half elf roars with uncontrollable laughter. Stiffening, Tuevel waits with edged dignity for his friend to regain control of himself. When – a slightly mortifying length of time later – Varis straightens, wiping tears from his eyes, the Stag sniffs and glares at him.

“If you’re quite finished?”

Still chuckling to himself, the Grandmaster nods.

“Yes, quite finished, oh mighty protector. Are you finished being a pompous arse?”

There is a long silence, before Tuevel finally speaks.

“I suppose I could try them.”

Varis smiles, crouching to unclasp a large wooden case. From within the velvet lined box he draws four huge silver horseshoes, the metal seeming to flicker and shift as though still molten. He grins.