A Path of Oak and Ash by M.P. Reeves Page B

glen.  Children danced around the center fire at a distance, their heads decorated with floral wreaths, their flowing tunics twirling as they spun.  It was hard to distinguish the boys from the girls, all of the children had long hair and similar clothing.  Majority of the women congregated not by the feast, but by the garden’s opposite the lute players. One by one their voices joined in song to the beat of the hand drum.
     
    “The maidens of beauty, lithe, draped in green
    ambled one morning fair, bright and early they strayed
    under billowing clouds cross the hills of Dre’ien
    twirling a glow as the birds trilled in the glade.
    Out through the moonlight, home break of morning
    the land the true love of each maid.”
     
    “Well now, what do we have here?”  A male voice called out.  Carrick had been so absorbed in the melody he did not notice the group in front of him.
    Before Carrick stood four male druids, all appearing about his age.  They eyed him shrewdly, as though they were attempting to size up his worth.  The one on the far left was taller than the others, his hair pitch black and flowed over the grey cloak on his shoulders that had been decorated with some sort of dark animal fur, clasped in a pendant that resembled a wolfs head, jaws open in a snarl.  His facial features were stuck in a perpetual frown, eyes matching his cloak topped with thick brows brought forward in his glum expression.  Beneath his cloak he wore the dark pants, handspun shirt and thick boots akin to everyone else he had seen so far around the community. A scar of four equal diagonal slices could be seen peeking through the thin off white material of his undershirt.
    Next to the dark glowering man was a blond boy who bore no expression at all. In a way he reminded Carrick of a renaissance painting. That whole handsome man with no emotion routine. Rather than a cloak, he wore a white long sleeved linen shirt under a leather vest embroidered with a stag arching up to the sky.  The daggers at each of his hips lead Carrick to believe he was a close range fighter. 
    The third of the group was the most casual, a lazy smile on his fine features.  Standing in the middle of the pack height wise, everything about him screamed stereotypical druid.    If such a thing existed over here.  The guy had medium brown hair half pulled back and half braided, his face clean shaven.  The tip of a sword hilt hidden under the emerald canopy that hung from his shoulders became visible when he stuck his arm out.  “Nice to make your acquaintance son of Brannon.”
    “Hey.”  How do you know me?   Carrick thought as he accepted the greeting. He took the stranger’s arm, not in a handshake but grasping him on the forearm just before his elbow joint.  With a firm squeeze the man dropped his hand, taking a step back.
    “I am Aodhan Fhanafall,” He gestured to the others with his left arm, “this is Quin Paorach, Conall Cattan and Tadhg Ros.” Each gave a quick nod of their heads in greeting when their name was called.  The redheaded on the end tacked on a short wave, smiling.  The palest of the bunch, Tadhg had a freckled face with green eyes and a nose that had been broken one too many times. 
    “You are all of the Fang?”  Carrick asked, going off their armaments and Quin’s chest scar.
    Aodhan laughed.  “Glad Erik is teaching you something!  We are indeed, warriors in training the lot of us. So tell me, what of the human world?  Is it true that no life grows in the earth in their cities?
    “I’ve heard they keep animals in cages for amusement.”  Conall added, his face remained flat despite the obvious disgust in his tone.
    “Are the girls as beautiful as they say?”  Tadhg pronounced girls like guls, his accent thicker than the other two that had spoken thus far.
    Carrick wrinkled his nose thinking of Mary, refusing to dwell on Liz again.  “Some are okay I guess, not as pretty as the one’s here.”
    Aodhan