Airlean Tales

Azalea paced in the lobby of the Guild, knitting and unknitting her fingers beneath her chin.

The Hunter’s Guild was desolate when they arrived, so quiet that Wes could hear every creak of his shoes against the wooden floorboards. The round tables strewn about the main tavern were empty, save for a few abandoned tankards. Even the attendant’s desk was unmanned.

Handling a starshooter, Wes thought, was much like handling a high society tea party.

Where the carcasses are, Azalea thought, the wolves are sure to follow. Just as he said.

The bell tower was still lowing when Azalea leapt onto the terrace of the Hunter’s Guild, her windsoles humming hot and ready.

Having windsoles again was like greeting an old friend.

The Hunter’s Guild was in chaos when Azalea pushed through the doors.

It was a short walk back to the Hunter’s Guild, but every step ached.

The village was overrun.

Sometimes Azalea dreamed of when her brother was still alive.