Liam May || Issue 12 || February 4, 2025
It was dark in the woods. Not tar pitch black or grey fog, but a frosty darkness. A crisp full moon hung low over the trees, a pale bloated orb, like an engorged whale swimming a sea of stars. The perfect dark was cracked only by the celestial lights, and a single lone campfire. In a small clearing of ever greens, a man and his steed huddled next to the burning logs. It wasn’t a cold of deep boreal winter, but it was a night that was chilly with the death of summer. The man wore a simple half plate, with a pelt draped across his shoulders for warmth. His weapons were simple, on his back was a Longsword, engraved
on its hilt a rampant rooster. At his side rested a mace. Leaning against the log he sat on was a shield, with a similar design of a rooster, gold on a black field. The horse was average in size, perhaps some 14 hands high, but sticky and covered with shaggy hair. A well-worn saddle with bags rested on its back, and no rope tied it, but it stood patiently by the fire, ears flicking around the clearing. It nuzzled the man’s arm and snorted. The warrior sighed and reached into a pouch at his waist, drawing out
a small carrot, which he promptly handed to his mount. The horse happily took it from his hands and shuffled away, chewing contentedly. The knight looked up to the sky, tracing constellations and the path of the moon. He sighed, expelling a visible cloud of vapor into the cold air. Snow was not on the ground but it would be soon, and by then he needed to buy out of this valley. He poked the fire with a
stick, sending a quick shot of sparks into the sky. The knight shifted a log closer to a split-open potato that rested near the embers. As he leaned closer to the fire, the warhorse pawed the ground and shook
its head nervously. The knight looked up sharply and scanned the edge of the firelight, his eyes straining to sort shadows from monsters. His hand rested on his mace with a careful, practiced ease.
“Who goes there?” He asked, voice level and calm. “If you are but a solitary bandit, you will not survive the first exchange, and if your numbers have surrounded me, choose the first to die.” From the edge of the forest stepped a figure in brown and green, his mottled cloak blending into the foliage. His hands were raised but his cowl hid his face. The knight looked at the newcomer warily, still ready for another to rush from the trees. “I mean no harm friend,” the stranger said, pulling down his hood. A ghost of a smile was on the new man’s face, his short scraggly beard and hair were black. A scar on his cheek looked more like the work of a blade than an accident, and the way he carried himself quietly stated capability. The knight’s hand never left his weapon. “How do I know your friends aren’t waiting for me to get comfortable before stabbing me in the back.” Slowly the other drew open his cloak, showing a wineskin hanging from his belt. The knight’s eyes did not miss the short sword that hung above it either. “A bandit wouldn’t share his mead before robbing a mark.”
The Hudsonian 