"Seems the young Lord of Bracum will soon join our dance," Alpheo commented, his eyes fixed on the horizon where a rising plume of dust heralded the approach of the Wolf.
Aye, good blood in that line, Egil would have probably commented, sounding like a muffled howl from behind the visor of his mastiff-head helm as it often was.
The helmet had been his own gift to Egil for the man's thirty-sixth birthday, and it always made him uneasy whenever he wore it.
Egil had laughed when Alpheo once admitted the helm spooked him, claiming that if it could unsettle a friend, it would make a foe defecate in his breeches. Alpheo missed that crude, comforting wisdom every single day.
It seemed everything that was lost looked better than it was.
