Teirs's'Ffalenn To the five wary clan scouts who kept watch from the remote Mathorn outpost, and who found themselves playing startled host to unexpected s'Ffalenn royalty, Arithon made his firm disposition. 'There is no other choice to be made. I must move on, and at once.' The biting, harsh cold attended a brief silence. Across the windblown rags of the blaze kindled to brew water for remedies, Braggen slept like the dead. His sword cuts had been bathed and bound by his liege's own hands, with his slack, weary body finally settled amid the folds of Jieret's bear mantle. In predawn darkness, huddled in leathers and furs against the cruel chill whose grip lingered on for the season, the three scouts holding parley exchanged unsettled glances. The fox-haired woman slapped the stick just used to score maps in the snow against an impatient, gloved palm. 'That would cause disappointment.' Her remonstrance snapped through consonants as brisk. 'Braggen will want to go with you.' Arithon regarded her, features cut to sharp angles by the harried, low fire, and his green eyes hard-set against sentiment, he would pose a liability.' No need to belabor the core of that argument.
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