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“Eagle’s Splendour” by Ryan Campbell

Today’s story is "Eagle's Splendour," originally written for the Confuzzled convention by Ryan Campbell, author of the award-winning Fire Bearers series and Koa of the Drowned Kingdom. Follow him on twitter at ThePenDrake.

Transcript
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You’re listening to The Voice of Dog.

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I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

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and today’s story is

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"Eagle's Splendour,"

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originally written for the Confuzzled convention

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by Ryan Campbell,

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author of the award-winning Fire Bearers series

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and Koa of the Drowned Kingdom.

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Follow him on twitter

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at ThePenDrake.

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“Eagle’s Splendour”

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by Ryan Campbell

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Caleb’s little plastic gryphon stood just where he’d been

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at the end of the game’s last session:

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surrounded by giant spiders.

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Caleb wasn’t worried.

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Greywing was strong.

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Experienced in battle.

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Nothing frightened him.

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“Hey, cat.” Juniper stood at end of the table, unfolding her GM screen.

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“Hi, June,” Caleb said to the caribou.

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“Antlers coming in, huh?”

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“Every year, my dude.

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Itches like hell, too,

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so I’m probably gonna kill the lot of you out of sheer irritation.

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You… you ready for this tonight?

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The thing you wanted to do?”

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She placed a little figurine of a bipedal dragon playing a lute on the game mat.

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Caleb flattened his ears.

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He was trying so hard not to think about it.

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His stomach felt about ready to go fleeing down the street

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whether he was with it or not.

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“I’m not,” he said. “But Greywing is.

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Just give him a good moment, okay?”

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“Hey, I’m only the GM. I’m not a goddess

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—well, I am, but not here.

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You gotta make the roles, my dude.”

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Caleb rubbed at his cheek ruffs

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—a bad habit when he was anxious

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—and sat at the table,

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threading his tail through the back of the chair.

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“Yeah, but you’ll give me a moment when he can cast Eagle’s Splendour, and then he can—can—”

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“Yeah, I got it, profess your undying love—”

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“No!” Caleb covered his face with his paws

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as though he could hide the heat radiating from it.

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“I just want to ask him out.

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I got Firebirds tickets right here.”

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“Whoa. What’d you do, rob a liquor store?”

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Juniper placed the hyena-like figure of a gnoll

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on the battle mat near the spiders.

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“You know some people can actually save money, Juniper, and not spend it all on fantasy costumes.”

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Juniper looked down at her forest ranger outfit.

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“It adds class to our games, and you know it.”

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“Waddup, nerds?” Lauren elbowed her way into the room

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and thunked a liter of carbonated coffee down on the table.

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“You ready to stomp some spiders?”

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Caleb hunched down a little in his seat.

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Lauren was awfully intimidating for a coyote,

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and it didn’t help that she played a gnoll with pretty much the same personality.

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“I think so. Just as soon as Cass gets here.”

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“He brought me. He’s parking.”

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“Heyo!” Cassidy stumbled into the room with gaming books and lunch containers that smelled of lemon chicken

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and twice-cooked fish under one arm.

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Caleb tried to stop the stupid, adoring smile from creeping across his face,

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but he couldn’t help it.

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Something about the coati pushed all the right buttons.

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He was big, soft, happy, and he was the one who had gotten Caleb into gaming in the first place,

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despite also loving football and beer and being kind of a bro.

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He was just a friendly guy who liked people and enjoyed doing the things they loved.

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The kind of person who should be easy to ask out.

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He plunked down in the chair between Lauren

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and opened steaming containers of food,

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nearly knocking over the little figure of Sir Milford, the dragon. “How’s it

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goin’, folks? We ready to do this thing?”

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Caleb glanced up at him,

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felt the heat return to his face,

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and focused instead on his character.

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They had spiders to kill.

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The sickly yellow and black spiders skittered around Greywing on long, spindly legs,

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salivating. The gryphon tried to recall if he’d heard of these spiders in any of the local stories,

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but what did it matter?

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One giant spider squashed as easily as another.

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He swung his mace

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and splattered arachnid ichor across the rocks.

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Its companions seemed unfazed,

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and one tackled his boot,

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biting hard, but its fangs couldn’t pierce the toughened leather.

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Chumpstabber, the gnoll, pulled a round, glass flask from her pack, uncorked it, and grinned.

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“Choke on this, you dumb bugs,”

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she said before hurling the flask directly at the swarm of spiders.

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Cool liquid soaked the ground and the chittering enemy,

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as well as Greywing’s boots.

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He’d seen those flasks before.

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Oil. Which meant he knew what was coming next.

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Sir Milford had apparently decided the two of them needed some encouragement

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and had unslung his lute.

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He gave it a few strums with his claws

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and sang. “Don’t worry, guys! You’re the best! You can defeat the… entire…

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rest!” At the end of the song he beamed and gave them both a scaled thumbs-up.

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“Wow, that one’s going to the top of the charts, huh?”

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sneered Chumpstabber.

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Despite her dismissive tone,

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Greywing could tell that she felt encouraged,

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her back straightening,

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and shoulders going back.

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It meant a lot to have this minstrel believe in them,

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and they knew the songs at the local tavern tonight

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would be about their deeds and full of praise,

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if not exactly well-worded.

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With Sir Milford at their side,

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he felt sure they could face any threat,

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defeat any foe. He cocked one leg back and, with a fierce kick,

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punted the spider at his boot as hard as he could.

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“The itsy-bitsy spider launched up into the sky!” he shouted

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as the thing sailed away like a football,

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legs flailing. He turned

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and dashed out of the oil-soaked grass,

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but as he ran, one of the nearby spiders lunged at him,

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its fangs penetrating his leonine fur

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and sending a cold numbness through his flesh.

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Crap. “I dunno why I always have to be the one lighting fires when we have an actual dragon with us,”

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Chumpstabber grumbled.

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Sir Milford gave a whimsical strum in answer.

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With a deft flick to her tinder box, the gnoll lit a small wad of paper and flicked it toward the grass.

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There was a loud whump

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like someone billowing out a bedsheet,

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and then the air was filled with flames

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and the hissing and wet pops of giant spiders sizzling in the fire.

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“Huh. That was easy.”

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“Yeah, it was!” Greywing wiped his mace off in the grass.

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“Because we’re badasses.”

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“You did amazing, guys.”

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Sir Milford’s talons danced a magical pattern over his lute strings.

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Greywing got lost for a moment, staring at him.

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In a world as hostile as this one,

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it felt so good to have someone like him on your side

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—someone always positive.

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Strong, but with soft edges.

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“Hey, without you helping us…”

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he trailed off. It was a perfect moment.

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He muttered the incantation for Eagle’s Splendour

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and felt divine grace fill him.

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He didn’t need it, he knew.

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He was confident enough,

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charming enough. But why chance it?

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Spiders could only wrap you up in butt-thread, liquify your organs, and drink you for lunch, but love?

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That was dangerous.

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But he knew how to handle fear.

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You acknowledged it,

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but you didn’t let it control you.

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You moved past it.

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He strode over to Sir Milford,

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giving him a smile as wide as the world.

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“Say there, Milfy! What do you say you and I…”

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He faltered. Something was wrong.

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“You and I…” It felt like his brain was drowning in hot maple syrup.

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“Uhhhh. We killed spoidas and they was a bad.”

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Sir Milford tilted his head.

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“Huh? Oh no. Oh no, bro. You didn’t get bit, did you?”

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Bit? Greywing looked down at his leg. “Me got

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spoida holes in leg!”

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“Oh man. These spiders, they do intelligence damage.

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I should have thought of it sooner.”

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Greywing gaped at him,

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drool sliding down his beak.

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“I’m a stupid?” “Ha!” Chumpstabber fell over laughing.

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“Nice going, dumdum.”

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Sir Milford fixed Greyson with a concerned, reptilian stare.

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“It should wear off by the end of the day.

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We’ll look after you until then, bud.

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Don’t worry about it.

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So. What was it you were trying to tell me?”

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The venom finally wore off about four hours later.

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Greywing hadn’t needed much mental power to swing his mace around,

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but the conversation hadn’t exactly been stimulating.

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The spiders had been carrying about twenty gold,

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which— “Hold on,” Caleb interjected.

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“What are spiders doing carrying all this gold around?”

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Juniper shrugged. “What are they going to spend it on? They’re spiders!”

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“Yeah, come on, dumdum, keep up.”

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Lauren tossed a popcorn kernel at him.

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—which was more than enough to cover their stay.

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Greywing sat at a tavern table, sipping his ale and watching Sir Milford serenade the tavern with songs of their epic battle.

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Now, he thought. His mind was finally clear,

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the numbing effects of the venom having finally worn off.

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It wasn’t as perfect a moment as after the battle,

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but at least here they weren’t likely to be attacked.

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Plus, the list of good times to ask someone else out

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had to include right after their song about how great you were.

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He waited until the song had ended,

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quaffed the rest of his ale in a few manly gulps,

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and stood up from the table.

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He turned away and muttered the spell for Eagle’s Splendour again.

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The tavern seemed to brighten,

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as though all his feathers were radiating divine light.

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He turned toward the dragon,

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leaving his fear and worry behind him.

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“Sir Milf—” he began.

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He blinked. Sir Milford was sashaying across the tavern,

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singing directly to a slim little kobold sitting at the bar.

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No. Not singing. Flirting.

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“Hey there, buddy, you’re lookin’ kinda fine.

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Do you come here often? ‘Cause hey, it’s my first time.

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I know this place has bedrooms but I really don’t know wheres.

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Would you do a drag a favor and help him find the stairs?”

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Greywing rubbed his temples.

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He should have seen it coming;

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Sir Milford did this at every tavern.

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And he was good at it.

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Apparently no one could say no to a pudgy, grinning dragon with a voice like an angel

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and lyrics written by that angel’s four-year-old nephew.

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The little kobold was already scampering excitedly up the stairs toward the tavern’s guest rooms,

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with a grinning dragon lumbering up behind him.

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Greywing pushed himself to his feet.

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The timing was awful

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and the moment was weird,

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but if he didn’t do this now, he wouldn’t get another chance until the next morning.

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“Sir Milford, before you go—”

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The dragon turned around,

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a huge grin plastered on his face.

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In fact, plastered was exactly the right word

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—Sir Milford was very,

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very drunk. Greywing only now noticed the impressive array of tankards that had accumulated around the tavern hearth.

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The advantage of being a

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your drinks were on the house.

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“Hey there, Birdbrain,

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what’s up? You want—hic!

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—you want in on this?

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We got room for three upstairs!”

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He lurched, stumbling down a few steps and nearly falling.

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“S’gonna be—s’gonna be a great time.”

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“No. I mean, no thank you.”

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Greywing felt his shoulders go slack. You couldn’t ask a

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guy out when he was wasted.

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Sure, you might get a yes,

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but it’d be the ale saying yes, not the guy.

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“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”

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“For sure, bro.” The dragon gave him a thumbs-up, then belched loudly,

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then giggled. “For sure.”

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He followed the kobold upstairs.

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That night, Greywing lay in his own room with the pillow clamped over his head,

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trying to muffle the loud sounds of enthusiastic reptiles two doors down.

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Tomorrow, he told himself.

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Tomorrow, I’ll ask him.

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No matter what. “Hey, drunky, gimme a fortitude save,”

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Juniper called up over her game screen.

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Cassidy gave the caribou a rueful grin

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and sent a d20 bouncing across the table.

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It rolled, skidded,

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and finally came to rest,

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a number one staring toward the ceiling

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like the slitted eye

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of Sauron. “Oh ho ho ho,” Juniper giggled.

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“Ooh hoo hoo.” Sir Milford groaned and shielded his eyes from the sunlight.

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“Oh gods. Oh gods, my head.

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And my stomach!” He lurched from side to side on the trail through the grass.

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“Serves you right,”

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Greywing snapped. “Drinking so much the night before a big hunt.”

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They’d been sent on the trail of some monster that had been devouring livestock every night and,

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if the villagers were right,

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was even responsible for a couple of missing children.

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No one had seen the monster,

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but they’d found its tracks:

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enormous, three-toed, reptilian.

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Some said dragon, but the tracks were bipedal and elongated.

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Whatever it was, it was huge

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and terribly dangerous.

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Sir Milford gave Greywing a watery stare.

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“What’s wrong with you?

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I’m the one suffering here.”

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“I just wish you’d take things a little more seriously sometimes, that’s all.”

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Greywing stumped ahead. “Ha.

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He’s jealous,” Chumpstabber snickered.

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“He wanted to get in on that bow-chicka-bow-bow.”

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And then she apparently invented the cabbage patch dance move.

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“Ugh, not so loud.” Sir Milford put both hands over his ears.

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“Anyway, I did ask if he wanted to—”

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“I’m not jealous!” Greywing shouted.

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“It’s just… it’s just that we’re a team.

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We’re supposed to be working together.

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Can you even fight like this?”

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Chumpstabber wagged her tail.

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“I fight better with a hangover.

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Makes me mean.” Greywing’s train of thought

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briefly jumped its tracks as he tried to imagine

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what a mean version of Chumpstabber would be.

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“Don’t worry, little buddy,” Sir Milford said.

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“I will sustain you through my gift of song,

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no matter what the, uh,

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the uh, bad stuff happening.”

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Greywing rolled his eyes.

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They were following a dirt path the villagers had pointed out to them the night before.

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The rains had turned the path to mud,

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but Greywing could still make out the remnants of massive, three-toed footprints,

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each so large he could lie down in one

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and stretch his arms into the ruts created by the toes.

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The path led them out of the fields and into the shade of a wooded area.

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Sir Milford looked glad to be out of the bright sunlight.

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Greywing stared up into the trees.

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High up, the branches were twisted and broken.

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Something massive had come this way.

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“Does anyone even have any idea what this thing is?”

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he asked. The bard frowned.

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If anyone had a clue,

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it would be the guy who collected stories.

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“I’m not one hundred percent sure,

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but from the tracks, I think it might be a mallasque.”

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“What the heck’s that?”

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Chumpstabber wanted to know. “Sounds dumb.”

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Cassidy looked up from his gamebook.

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“It’s dinosaur thing, sort of.

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Like a t-rex, but smaller and wimpier.”

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Juniper cleared her throat.

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“But uh, highly dangerous

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and worthy of respect,

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your bardic knowledge tells you.”

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“Also,” said Cassidy,

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“my bardic knowledge wants you to know about the danger thing.”

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“Oh, okay. Dope.” Lauren clenched a fist.

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“Let’s kill it.” “Hey, my dudes, give me a Perception check,”

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Juniper said. Three dice hit the table.

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“Six.” “Eleven.” “Four.” “Never mind.” Juniper shrugged.

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“You don’t see it.”

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The shadows in the forest seemed to darken and deepen.

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It was quiet, Greywing noticed.

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No birds were singing.

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No insects buzzed in the air.

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This was a bad place.

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“So, what should we do to fight it?”

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he asked. “Any weak spots, anything we should try to avoid?”

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The wind under the trees was hot,

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stale, and strangely humid.

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It carried the stench of decaying meat and fetid flesh.

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And a moment too late, he realized:

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that wasn’t wind.

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It was breath. A low growl came from behind him.

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“Guys?” he called to the two ahead of him,

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but he barely got the word out before two rows of sharp, hot teeth

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sank into his shoulder

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and pulled him off the ground.

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He tried to grab his sword, but his arm flopped uselessly at his side.

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“Oh, crap!” Sir Milford shouted.

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He clumsily unslung his lute from his shoulder and gave it a strum,

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but winced, his ear fins flattening against his skull at the sound of offkey notes

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piercing his hangover-stressed eardrums.

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“Aggh! So loud! So loud!”

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Greywing swung back and forth from the thing’s jaws,

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the ground rocking below him,

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pain piercing his arm and shoulder,

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blood and saliva running through his feathers.

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Then he was falling.

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There wasn’t time to twist and land on his feet;

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he hit the ground with a thump

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that knocked the wind from him.

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The beast standing over him was enormous,

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so huge that each of them only reached its knees.

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It stood on two legs but crouched so low that the scythe-like talons of its forepaws

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nearly dragged along the ground.

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It had a pebbled, scaly hide

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layered with bony armor through which many horns and spikes had sprouted haphazardly.

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It roared in pain,

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a terrible, grinding, raspy bellow

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that made Sir Milford drop to his knees,

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clutching at his ear fins.

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Just behind the monstrous creature,

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Chumpstabber appeared,

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as though she’d been there the whole time,

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her blades dripping with the thing’s dark red blood.

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“Lucky you guys have me, huh?”

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Greywing rolled out of the mallasque’s path

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and quickly gulped a potion,

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clamping his beak tight at the feeling of muscle and flesh knitting itself back together beneath his armor.

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“You said it was a tiny little wuss dinosaur!”

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he shouted at Sir Milford. “This?

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This is what you call tiny?”

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“I’m sorry! It looked smaller in… my imagination!”

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Sir Milford worked at his lute

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with the tuning key.

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His talons plucked at the strings and produced a chord that was only slightly dissonant.

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“Our party does not fear,” he sung, “For Chumpstabber stabbed the mallasque in the rear. This monster might as well take flight, for we came here prepared to fight.”

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His lute must have been a bit out of tune,

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because Greywing didn’t feel the usual surge of confidence and capability

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that usually accompanied Sir Milford’s lyrics.

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He rubbed at his barely healed shoulder,

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assessing his opponent.

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It appeared to have

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no weak spots, but Chumpstabber had sliced it across the back of the knee

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with her short sword,

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and it was already limping.

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It lurched to one side, and for a moment Greywing thought it was about to fall—but no,

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it was only turning.

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And sweeping its massive, spiked tail toward him,

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the ponderous weight of it crushing the underbrush,

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snapping small trees away.

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He barely had time to spring away.

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The wind of it ruffled his feathers,

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the jagged, horny spikes furrowing

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through his feathers and just missing his flesh.

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This was bad. Very bad.

bard:

A single bite could end any of them.

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He took a deep breath

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and let his fear go.

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So, the backs of its knees were vulnerable.

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Its hide looked less armored there,

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as well as inside its thighs and beneath its arms.

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He might be able to get his sword in there.

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He danced closer,

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dodging first a deadly swipe with one of its arms

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and then ducking below a sudden lunge

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of its dripping,

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tusked jaws. This close,

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he could see that its teeth grew jagged and irregular,

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thrust haphazardly through gums

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and even its lips.

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Its breath stank of blood and decay.

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Holding his sword overhead,

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he slashed across the only tender-looking place he could reach from here

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—its inner thigh,

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leaping to reach.

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It was a good hit, a solid hit,

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and the thing’s hot, red blood spilled across his armor.

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It roared again in pain and fury,

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its voice like a giant fork being dragged across a massive slab of slate.

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Sir Milford went cross-eyed mid-strum

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and a string on his lute snapped.

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Chumpstabber leapt onto the mallasque’s tail

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and scrambled up its back,

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using its many spikes for purchase.

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She ran all the way up to its head, dodging tree branches as the monster lunged about, trying to catch her,

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and she sunk her sword into its eye.

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“My mom always told me if I ran with this,

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I’d put an eye out.

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Thanks, mom!” The mallasque bellowed in agony one final time,

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lurching from side to side,

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clawing uselessly at its face with curved sickle-talons, trying to pry free the sword.

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“Ha! We got you!” Greywing crowed up at it.

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It would lean down soon,

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trying to scrape the sword in its eye free, and when it did, his own sword would be at the ready.

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Its throat was unarmored,

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the flesh soft and loose,

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but out of reach.

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He hopped nimbly over another sweep of its tail, sidestepped a swipe from its claw.

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“We got you, you stupid, monstrous piece of—”

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It stepped on him.

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The last thing he heard was the sound of every single one of his bones breaking at the same time. #

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Caleb stared at the table.

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At his character sheet.

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The monster had rolled a natural twenty.

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Critical hit, double damage on a blow that would have taken him to zero even without the critical.

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“No!” he shouted uselessly at the dice. “No!”

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Juniper peeked between her fingers.

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“Oh my gosh, Caleb. I am so sorry.” “There

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has to be something we can do.

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A potion.” “I wish there was, man, but… wow.

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Greywing is super dead.

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I don’t even think you can rez from that.

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There might be a way.”

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“Ha. You’re a footprint.”

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“It’s not funny, Chumpstabber!

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Lauren!” Caleb clenched his dice in his paws.

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“Okay,” Juniper cut in.

bard:

“I think we need a break.

bard:

Let’s all take ten and we’ll figure out what comes next.

bard:

What came next was a lot of feverish checking of the rules,

bard:

followed by a few moments of quiet dismay,

bard:

and then a burial ceremony in Juniper’s backyard.

bard:

They dug a little hole next to her persimmon tree

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and, with great solemnity and an impromptu song from Sir Milford via Cassidy

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—one that dared to rhyme

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“Greywing” with “may sting,”

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along with other lyrical debacles

bard:

—they laid Greywing’s character sheet to its final rest.

bard:

Caleb stared into the hole

bard:

as Lauren filled it in with a few shovels of earth. It wasn’t as though

bard:

anyone real had died,

bard:

but Caleb felt a heavy dismay pressing down on him

bard:

like a wet bedspread.

bard:

Greywing had been his courage.

bard:

His bravado. A voice he could speak through.

bard:

Being the gryphon had felt more real, somehow.

bard:

It was stupid to cry over a dumb character you played in a game,

bard:

so Caleb didn’t. But once or twice, he felt like it.

bard:

Cassidy’s meaty hand fell on his shoulder,

bard:

nearly making him stumble.

bard:

“Always sucks to lose a character.

bard:

But hey, now you get to roll up a new one!

bard:

That’s exciting, right?”

bard:

I think you’re amazing.

bard:

Bad poetry and all. I like you so much.

bard:

Will you go to a Firebirds game with me?

bard:

And dinner? Fear knotted in Caleb’s stomach.

bard:

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess so.”

bard:

Cassidy went back inside with Lauren.

bard:

They were already joking.

bard:

And why shouldn’t they?

bard:

Nothing really bad had happened.

bard:

“Hey, man.” Juniper walked up next to him.

bard:

She scratched at her budding antlers with one hand.

bard:

It looked painful.

bard:

“I know that was important to you.

bard:

It coulda been a cool moment.

bard:

Even if I

bard:

really didn’t understand how it was going to work.

bard:

Was Greywing going to date Milford and then the two of you would have to date because your characters were? I didn’t quite get it.”

bard:

Caleb sighed. “It’s easy for you to talk to people.

bard:

You just say whatever’s on your mind, and it comes out.

bard:

But me… there’s so much in my head and—and in my heart. And when I talk, most of it doesn’t come out.

bard:

My voice isn’t big enough for everything that’s inside me.

bard:

But Greywing’s was.

bard:

When I was him, I could say anything.

bard:

I know who I am. If I had a character sheet, my charisma would be ten.

bard:

Eleven, maybe.” He had that stat on hand because he’d worked out all his stats before.

bard:

Strength 9, dexterity 12,

bard:

constitution 10.

bard:

The physical stats were never his best.

bard:

Intelligence was his best, at 16.

bard:

Wisdom at 14, if he was being generous.

bard:

Charisma 11. It was what made you good at talking to people.

bard:

It was what made people like you.

bard:

Greywing had had a charisma of 17.

bard:

Everyone had liked Greywing.

bard:

Juniper flicked her tail a few times.

bard:

“Hey, you know what I like about games?”

bard:

Caleb could guess where this was going.

bard:

“That they’re not real?”

bard:

And I should just get over it.

bard:

“Kind of, I guess.” She rubbed at her chin.

bard:

“I was thinking more about what they’re for.

bard:

Like, when you’re a kid and you run around playing, it’s never just play, right?

bard:

You’re a bobcat, you must have…

bard:

you know, when you were a kitten, done the stalking thing, and running real fast around the house, driving your mom crazy, climbing up walls or trees.”

bard:

“Yeah, I guess. Every kid does that stuff, not just bobcats.

bard:

bobcats.” “Right, but it’s all hunting stuff too. Like,

bard:

if we all lived in the wild,

bard:

you’d have to go hunt…

bard:

prey. As an adult bobcat. To eat.

bard:

And do stuff to survive, and find a mate, and whatever.”

bard:

“Oh… kay…” He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the mate talk.

bard:

“Look, the point is,

bard:

it’s practice, right?

bard:

You’re learning how to do all the stuff you’ve got to do as an adult in a way that’s safe.

bard:

Games are the same, I think.

bard:

A way to try all the stuff you’re gonna have to do in life before it’s real.

bard:

That’s what they’re for, right?”

bard:

Caleb folded his arms.

bard:

“Some games, maybe.

bard:

Sports, for sure, I can see how you learn pack behavior and improve your strength and dexterity.”

bard:

“Yeah. It’s practice in a way that’s safe.

bard:

To help get you ready for the real thing. Yeah?”

bard:

Juniper gave him a pat on the back.

bard:

“These guys have a monster to kill and a friend to avenge.

bard:

I better get back to them.

bard:

Let me know who you want to be next, okay?”

bard:

Caleb watched her head inside.

bard:

He wasn’t dumb. He saw what she was getting at.

bard:

But roleplaying wasn’t practice for anything.

bard:

It was just make-believe.

bard:

He wished he could be as confident and unafraid as the gryphon.

bard:

It hadn’t been that way at first, of course.

bard:

His first few sessions, he hadn’t really known the character,

bard:

hadn’t been able to play him well.

bard:

After a while of walking around in Greywing’s skin, though, he’d learned,

bard:

and it had become easier.

bard:

He walked up to the glass door of Juniper’s patio and looked inside.

bard:

Cassidy saw him and gave him a cheerful wave.

bard:

Caleb waved back, his mind stuck on a point that it couldn’t quite pull free of.

bard:

He’d learned. How to be Greywing,

bard:

a little. He’d played, and he’d learned. He’d practiced.

bard:

He hadn’t behaved very likably just now,

bard:

but no one liked to lose a character.

bard:

But everything he’d practiced

bard:

didn’t go away just because there was a piece of paper in the ground with some dirt on it.

bard:

Did it? Mentally, he pulled up his character sheet,

bard:

the one with all his real-life stats.

bard:

Charisma 11. But he’d been working on it.

bard:

Playing had to be worth something.

bard:

He opened the patio door.

bard:

Cassidy sat at the table,

bard:

engaged in the game.

bard:

It was a terrible moment for this.

bard:

And Cassidy could laugh at him.

bard:

He could give him a kind,

bard:

pitying look and say that he could never think of Caleb that way.

bard:

There were lots of reasons to fear.

bard:

Caleb mentally nodded at that fear,

bard:

acknowledging that it was there.

bard:

Then he stepped passed it.

bard:

He felt, for a moment, the weight and strength of huge eagle wings on his back,

bard:

shining with glory.

bard:

He gave Cassidy a smile as wide as the world.

bard:

This was "Eagle’s Splendour"

bard:

by Ryan Campbell,

bard:

read for you by Khaki,

bard:

your faithful fireside companion.

bard:

Thank you for listening

bard:

to the Voice of Dog

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About the Podcast

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The Voice of Dog
Furry stories to warm the ol' cockles, read by Rob MacWolf and guests. If you have a story that would suit the show, you can get in touch with @VoiceOfDog@meow.social on Mastodon, @voiceofdog.bsky.social on Blue Sky, or @Theodwulf on Telegram.

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About your host

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Khaki