It wasn't cold, just bitter. If the wind would shut its trap, then they'd be fine, but it seemed to be stuck on this endless ranting, like some deranged dog.
Yippy, that's what I would call it.
But they hadn't come to enjoy the scenery, so it never entered their mind that it might be bad weather. And, of course, there's not really any such thing as that, only bad clothes.
A few had dressed more appropriately than others. Some had less brains, and some just more bronze, but whatever they looked like, it was a welcome sight for the group of men that came running from the village to greet them.
Stair's End was a peaceable place, nestled at the foot of mount Pyre. It's summers were beautiful and green, it's winters less than survivable, but they made their own way, and the in between season was like a milking cow; you never could tell if it was going to stand still and smile all the while, or kick the bucket over and snort its way across the field. Some had so endearingly titled it the "town of [insert bad word,]" but most that lived there had done so for generations.
The travelers were met with low lying, one room houses scattered over the paling tundra. It looked like a bad case of chicken pox, but then, it was their home. A small group of children ran, laughing through the streets and trying to catch the one holding a small toy. They looked a lot like the men that came out rather quickly to greet them.
"Oh, praise the gods my Lords!" One yelled as he rather clumsily made to kissing their hands, Lords and Ladies alike. A traveler or two laughed, but reigned it in when the larger and burly man spoke.
"Welcome, my Lords, to Stair's End. We have been waiting a very long time for you." His voice sounded a bit like rock underfoot, but solid. Sort of like the belly that protruded from torso like some baby to be, only, this one would never get born.
Wary eyes looked around amongst the group of these newcomers, but not because they found anything threatening. No, it was rather quite the opposite. These people didn't look like they could farm a potato patch, let alone defend themselves from the beasts and wild men that inhabited these regions. No wonder they had sent for some reinforcements, but then, it was hardly that because in order to count, there has to be something they can reinforce.
One of the woman leaned over to a companion to whisper snide remarks, "Looks like the Holy Grail's real after all, because it's a miracle that these folks are still alive."
The men didn't catch the comment, so they just smiled.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Sir…."
"Bralis, Sir Bralis of Talonsfall. These are my companions, Lord Perector, descendant of The Stone Giant, might I add." The motioned to figure resembled something like a weasel, only smaller and with pinched features and squinty eyes. How he could see clearly out of them, no one will ever know, but it gave them all a slightly uncomfortable feeling to sit under his peering gaze.
Akin to being watched by a slime rat. Untouchable, because no one would ever dare.
"Who in the name of the king is that?" One muttered, screwing his face up and shaking it to keep from laughing.
"It's probably your grandfather." Came the reply as they nudged elbows, cutting back the laughter, but some still dribbled out.
The man, Sir Bralis of Talonfall, moved from Lord Perector and motioned to the man standing on is other side now, "And this is my squire, most just call him Genn." The boy's face split like a melon, all too proud of his position as squire to the mayor.
"Pfft." Said one, but it was hardly worth calling it words.
"And you are?" Sir Bralis asked, gesturing with those pudgy hands of his.
"You sent for aid from the king, at least, that was the letter that we received." One of the Lords stepped forward and proffered a piece of parchment. Sir Bralis knew it, as it was in his hand, and so he began vigorously nodding his head up and down like a love-struck pony, as if to be sure that they understood this was an affirmation to their question. As if they couldn't discern that for themselves.
"Yes, yes! We're in desperate need of help. Our town has been ravaged by the beast for so long, and despite our best efforts to hold it at bay, the advances continue, and get stronger all the time."
This time it was the woman that had remarked sarcastically about their survivability that spoke. "Beast? We were under the impression that you were being attacked by wild men…."
"No, no, definitely worse than that." Sir Bralis responded, chin bubbling back and forth. "This is much worse. The most terrible monster you've ever seen, with red eyes and black wings that darken the sky. And there's that fire, on the inside."
The travelers looked at one another, each of them thinking the same thing.
Strange, and almost unbelievable because there hadn't been dragons in this part of the land for more than an age. What could have brought it this far north?
"Well, whatever it is, we've been sent to provide our service and our protection. What would you have us do?"
"Oh, you must slay it for us. This beast will eat everyone one of us, and raise this precious little town to the ground if you don't!" His emphatic cry was enough to soften their mocking hearts a bit. These were real people, after all, and they deserved the right to life and liberty just the same. This was what they had come for.
"We swear, in the name of the king, that we'll avenge any suffering you have received at the hand of this beast."
Sir Bralis nearly leaped at them with arms outstretched, a few over dramatic tears spilled from his eyes, whipped away by the ferocious wind that had kicked up. "Oh, bless you, bless you all!" He turned to the men behind him, and the gathering crowd that was forming all around. "Stair's End is safe this night!" They cheered. "All hail…." Suddenly, he realized that they had skipped over the most important of parts. "Excuse me, my Lords, but I don't believe you've given your names."
They looked at one another again, then the one closest to Sir Balis glanced to his eyes.
"We," he said, "are the Writers of the Round Table…."
