The clatter of the dragongriff ball called to Garrick as he descended the stairwell. Five men and a woman stood around the table, watching as the wheel spun. The woman was short. She wore traveling breeches and a blouse frayed at the neck. Garrick stepped between her and an older man who was thin and frail, and whose face was deeply lined. A small copper coin and a few bristling hairs darkened the ear of this older man, the coin placed there, Garrick assumed, for luck. The croupier was as large as a bear and nearly as hairy. A pair of daggers jutted from a sheath at his belt. Across the table, three others leaned in to watch the ball run along its track. The old man pleaded. “Griffin,” he whispered, rubbing a tattered rag between his thumb and fingers so hard Garrick thought the cloth might catch fire. “Give us a griffon.” There was pain here. Loneliness. There was a liver gone bad of drink. He thought Sjesko’s energy would be drawn to this pain, but something about this man felt wrong—he lacked something Garrick could not place.
What do You think about Trail Of The Torean (Book 2)?
