Scale of a Dragon
J. Michael Radcliffe
Copyright © 01/23/2011 all rights reserved.
The warm glow of a fire flickered through the window, beckoning to Callen as she struggled through the snow towards the cottage. It was late; it had taken her much longer to gather the firewood for the night than she had thought, and darkness had fallen while she was still in the forest. The wind was bitterly cold, slicing through her furs like a knife and stinging her face. Every breath she took seared her lungs as the icy fingers of air tried to freeze her heart. She struggled to pull the sled laden with firewood through the drifting snow, her fur lined boots crunching as she walked. She’d had to journey deeper into Ebonwood day after day trying to find dry tinder to keep her cottage warm through the long winter nights. Much of the debris she normally found, fallen branches, sticks and the like, had been consumed by fires throughout the valley. The war between the dragons and the wizards had literally exploded across the land, with the dragons scorching and laying waste to any settlement they could find. The wizards weren’t much better. Heaving a sigh, Callen trudged onward with her burden. Although she was a magic user herself, she had a great respect for nature and specialized in creating tinctures and potions from the ingredients gathered in Ebonwood. Most witches and wizards looked down on herbalists like Callen, thinking her backward and uneducated, yet many relied on her for ingredients for their own spells.