He slowly traced the outline of the ring with his last finger, over and over again. The repetitive gesture reflected the nervous tension coursing throughout him, as he hungered for any shred of reassurance that things would somehow take a turn for the better. Right next to Wulfstan, Cenwald stood with a taut grip of his own, applied midway along the shaft of his spear. His flesh seemed to bind with the scuffed, nicked wood. Cenwald’s eyes were closed, as his mouth uttered silent prayers of supplication, beads of anxiety-ridden perspiration standing out upon the weathered skin of his broad forehead. Wulfstan had been so relieved to see Cenwald after the swiftly alternating bouts of near victory and near destruction, finally culminating favorably when the formidable Andamooran flank had been decisively driven back. Cenwald was covered with scratches, bruises, and a modest gash, but nothing that left him with permanent injury, or likely threatened to fester with disease.
