Aeryn ached, but it was a sweet ache. She handed Charger’s reigns (she’d finally named that poor rouncey) to Desmodius as she struck a flame on the tinder she’d help gather.
“What a battle! Oh you were all glorious! A fine tale for bards this would make. Four wet-ears sauntering in and solving Winterfell’s kobold problem. I’m starting to believe my own boasting, hah!”
She rolled our her sleeping sack and shrugged her armaments into a neat pile on the ground beside her, the heavy mail seemed to take the her minds burdens with it.
“Oh, it started off rough, but what a brilliant comeback Samael. Soon enough they’ll have to use full names to know which Stormwind they mean to praise,” she jibed cheerily.
“And Tyrael, the harrier himself! You’re swordplay is good, but it never ceases to astonish me how quickly those blades trade for a crossbow!”
The sunset cut a jagged orange bolt to a patch high lazy clouds that looked like a fist. She brightened and turned to her new warrior compatriot.
“Seems like Kord’s given his blessing to us, eh Desmodius? Perhaps we’ll find what you seek back in Winterfell. I don’t know of a dwarf, even an incensed one, how would turn down a good strong pint and a rousing account of a hard fought battle!”