Ryujin

Toshizo had walked this road before, when the sky was clear and the sun warm, but now the winds were high and the days dreary. Such was the spring of the Doldrum Years, wet, cold, and without respite. So little solace along this lonely road, dark for the canopy overhead, and the river of mud that wound its way through the Sentinel Forest. He lead his horse having become stiff and sore with the hours in saddle. It felt good to walk, though each step was treacherous. The horse seemed to welome the break, having no more energy than he did, and so their pace was slow and determined. Weary, it would be evening soon, and the end of day, the beginning of night.

They watched him pass, listening to the wind as it weaved through the trees, parting over the walker and his horse. The man was dressed simply in leather and wool, clean but travel worn. His horse well saddled, encumbered only by the sword that hung ready at the front, his bags lashed securely to the back. This was no ordinary soul, but one capable of defending himself should the circumstances warrant. They had no ill intent, but their curiosity lead them to match his pace, and they watched.

He felt the prickle of conciousness, the inner voice that spoke not of anxiousness or fear, but alertness. He did not sense danger, but he knew he was watched, by three, no more than five. He admired their swift silence, moving through the woods, a lesser man would not have been aware, but he was no ordinary man. He knew of these folk, the inhabitants of the Sentinel Forest, though he had never seen one, no one had. There were no tales of fierocity or malice, but then there were no tales of greatness or cleverness either. The tales were of uncommitted mystery. No one feared them, but no one knew them. But there was something else that scratched at the edge of his senses, something he was not yet quite aware of. He continued his way.

They knew he was a ranger, one of the King's men. They knew he was in danger from the presence on the far side of the next hill, but they did not feel compelled to warn him. They had no doubt he would manage, and felt no kinship, but they wished him no harm, for they knew if things were reversed he would protect them. And so, they raced ahead, and passed the word to stir the pot, to make the hidden known. They had no love for the presence.

Further up the road, the man in the dark hooded cloak waited, knowing the ranger was approaching. His gloved hand ran down the nobbled, thick, irridescent skin of the dragon on which he sat, a war saddle between his knees. It was between his leathered fingers that the dragonslayer struck, splitting dragon flesh and bone, bringing the beast to its hindlegs with a fiery roar that burnt the treetops and illuminated the evening sky, casting its rider to the hardscrabble ground, and bringing the ranger's lightening sword to bear.

The ranger stopped, sword in hand, and waited. The presence was discovered, and it was angry.