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Without our furs and cloaks, the cold was sharp. We struggled with both ice and snow along the mountain path, and my lord frequently slipped and fell. By the time we reached the gates of Rockridge, he was bruised, scraped, and his feet so swollen that I had to half-carry him. Tears had frozen on his cheeks.
He now knew the roughness of the other half of the fireside tales.
"Greetings to your lord and master," Sharp called to the guards in ther gatehouse. "And the blessings of the Gods upon your household. I am on my way from Slatten, and request shelter."
One of the soldiers peered at him. "You’re that Bard who left just two months back. I thought you went on your way toward Songless, on a quest."
Sharp’s smile was honey dripping from a jar. "I was turned toward Slatten, where I was given new duties and a quest for the Bardhall. I’m to meet a Caravan from the Outlands, and lead them to Bartiese. I have with me a novice who is not as hardy as he should be, and in sore need of rest.
The soldier scratched his head. "My lord isn’t welcoming visitors this yule season – but I can’t see him turning away a Bard. Geoff will go ask him his pleasure."
The other soldier moved off at a trot.
