The south wind hit him hot and thick like a warm dry blanket.  The grass
was dry and brown with small clumps of green at the base of the patches. 
The ground was flat and rolling climaxing at a hill in some places.  In the
distance the mountains rose like a black wall fencing in the Nomadlands.  
	A river twisted through the land eating away at the thick clay that made
up the ground.  A thick shelf of mud slid about a man's height into the
muddy river.  The red water streamed softly like a liquid silk ribbon in
the brown prairie. The trail followed the shelf, just a long worn patch in
the grass that the local game made as it moved.  
	C'aranth had followed the path for about a week now and figured the Cleft
wouldn't be far away.  Perhaps another two or three days ride hundred to a
hundred and fifty miles.  He had seen the Nomads and had found they could
be communicated with in a small way with hand signals.  He hadn't needed
much from them just some food and small amount of provisions.   Their way
of life did look different, like living in a perpetual camping trip.  They
did know how to have fun though.  Dancing and singing the night away.  His
skill in playing the panpipes won him dinner.  He didn't know what it was
he ate, but it tasted spicy and had a rice type substance with it.  They
knew what a dragon was and was supprised when he pulled out a book.  They
hadn't seen anything like it.  It was a hit with the younger children, the
pictures especially.
	C'aranth adjusted in the saddle.  Three horses carried him and all he
owned.  Leaving home was hard, but he felt a weight lift off him as he
descended the mountains that hid his Cleft.  The trip had been long, and he
took the time to write it all down.  Writing was one thing he had found
kept his mind off the hollowness in him.  He would sometimes look around
looking for her; he would hear her, in his mind.  Or in the early morning
he would be half asleep and think he could see her, or feel her still
there.  But when he woke it was gone.
	Four months hadn't dimmed the memory; it seemed it grew stronger everyday.
 But he would make them pay, he would make them all pay.  He would go back,
he would find the one-eyed queen and killer.  He would finish his work.  
	He looked at his lance, looking like a boar spear but longer and with an
oak staff.  The tip fashioned differently slimmer and thinner, for slipping
under the scales.  The he halting arms set six feet back to keep the dragon
from running down the staff.  He felt a wave of pride at his work.  The
blade fashioned by him; his father fitted it to the staff.  
	C'aranth looked up, in the distance he could see the domed tents of the
Nomad's.  He could make it by nightfall; another night might be good.  He
would follow the remainder of the way up Mare River and then east to the
Warren.  
	C'aranth entered the camp, the tents laid in a haphazard way around a
cleared area that held a beast on a spit over hot coals.  The people
crowded behind him as he rode to the center of the camp.  A man stood
wearing two scimitars and dressed in a bright red cloak approached him
flanked by two other men.  
	C'aranth dismounted and put a hand to his head and lowered it, he had
found this as a universal sign of greeting here.  The Chief did the same. 
C'aranth made as if he was eating with his hands, then reached into his
saddle bags and pulled out several knives.  About a dozen, he had plenty
more where that came from; he hammered these out all the time.
	The Chief made a motion as if to accept him into the camp and C'aranth
lead the horses in and tied them up.  He sat and listened to them talk. 
The knives were passed out among the leaders he suspected.  
	The sunset was nice, a rich red that was broken by the serration of the
mountains.  The Nomad camp convened around the coal that had been changed
to a fire and the meat taken off the spit and was being served with rice
like substance again.  C'aranth watched as dancers cam and danced for the
men around the fire.  A large smelly man next to C'aranth kept nudging him
and pointing at the women with a broad stupid smile.  C'aranth found no
interest in the dancing girls, he had a hard time finding any interest in
women at all.  
	The food wasn't as spicy as normal but it still held a bite to it.  And
the night drug on, a lot of dancing and drinking.  What ever it was the
Nomads brewed it was potent.  C'aranth didn't drink, after the last time he
did he woke to a new definition of hangover.  He watched and even played
some for the people.  He didn't think they liked the northern style of
music, they seemed to like a lot of percussion in their music.  
	C'aranth was walking to a lone tree just out of camp where he had set up
his small bed roll and a fire ring.  He was passing a tent when a woman was
tossed out and landed at his feet.  She grabbed his leg and was saying
something.  Her mouth was bleeding turning her teeth red.  A long gash ran
from her ear to her chin and was spilling blood down her neck and matting
her black hair.  Her top was torn off and another gash was covered with her
other hand.
	The large smelly man who sat next to C'aranth stepped out of the tent with
a dagger, one of the ones traded for the meat.  He pointed at her and
shouted.  His foot landed square in her ribs and knocked he clear of
C'aranth's leg.  He turned and bowed, spitting some words in an apologetic
manner.
	C'aranth held up a hand and motioned the man to follow him.  The man
followed just a short way to C'aranth horses.  C'aranth unloaded a horse
and lead it to the man.  He pointed at the woman then pointed to himself. 
He pointed to the horse then to the fat fellow.
	The fellow smiled, as he understood the trade.  He took the horse and
walked away leaving the bloody woman on the ground.  C'aranth bent down. 
"I don't know much about first aid, but I think I could get you to the
Warren.  There will be a doctor there."  
	She looked up at him in confusion as he turned and opened a saddlebag and
pulled out silk cut to bandages.  Carrying her to his small camp he lit the
fire so he could see what he needed to fix.  Her body was covered in
bruises and she had been stabbed in the leg as well.  Her wrists were
gouged from where a leather cord had tied them.  Her ribs and abdomen were
also bruised.  He cleaned and bound her wounds with field dressings he had
learned from his training as a rider.
	She simply cried and sobbed, never resisting.  "Benna, Benna·" was all she
said.  She held her stomach and sobbed.  C'aranth didn't understand, her
body would heal, just a woman thing he suspected.  He reached over and she
folded as he held her.  
	Sleep came slowly as her sobs slowly feel down and she began breathing
softly.  He looked at her one last time, then began to realize what he had
done.  "I have no idea what to do with you, but I will like the company."

	Yells woke the camp as herdsmen came running into camp.  C'aranth
recognized the yell, it was the same word they had for the drawings of the
dragons in his books.  The woman was still asleep on his chest so he slid
her off himself and grabbed his ballista and lance.  He headed for the
fields where the dragons were.
	He rounded a hill on his belly, the Nomad's were wise and picked the spots
for the herds in fortified places.  This was a small bowl with one
enterance, and a black dragon sat at that enterance with a rider on its
back.  Two others, a green and brown/grey ate the sheep and goats for
breakfast.  Two men made a fire.  They seemed pretty confidante of
themselves.  
	The first target would have to be the black, if it got airborn, he would
be a quick target in this field of dry grass.  C'aranth cranked the string
back and locked the balista and loaded it with a steel bolt.  He slid it on
the hill letting it rest on the hill.  
	The dragon breathed out a burst of flame as the Nomads charged the
enterence.  C'aranth judged it didn't have much flame left as the burst was
sparse and wasn't what he would expect from a dragon that size.  It drew in
for another breath and C'aranth let the bolt fly.  
	It struck in the head, the dragon wipped it's head back and bellowed then
fell.  The Nomads fell on the rider and began stabbing the dragon.  
	C'aranth quickly began winding the crank on the ballista lifting it so the
legs could fall and prop it up so he could stand and fire.  The other two
dragon riders raced to their beasts and climbed on.  C'aranth locked the
string back and lifted another bolt to load when the dragons started to
lift off the ground.  
	C'aranth fired at the brown one as it slowly lifted off the ground.  The
bolt struck it in the chest.  The distance was good and it sank until the
fletch was all that shown.  It hit the ground and the Nomads fell on it
with their spears and scimitars.  The green took to the air and fled to the
north.  The rider, the only woman, looked back and said something at
C'aranth but he couldn't make it out.   He let the ballista rest on his
shoulder as she flew out of range and looked down at the dragons and the
celebrating Nomads.
C'aranth walked down and took out his knife and cut a scale off the hide of
the two dragons.  With the two scales in hand he walked back to the camp. 
He ran his fingers over the scales and felt the ridges in the diamond
shaped scales.
When he reached his campsite the fire was dowsed and the two horses packed,
one with a saddle and another with equipment.  The woman stood next to the
rest of the equipment that was tied together to fit over a persons
shoulders.  C'aranth walked to the saddle and lifted a leather string on
which hung four other scales.  
With his knife he bore two holes in the two new scales and strung them on
the leather.  "You can ride."  C'aranth turned and took up the bundles. 
"No use in killing you with this."  He lifted the bundles onto his
shoulders.  
The Warren would deffinetly be three days now.  No way he could make it
with two horses and a wounded woman.  
At noon he had set the bundle on the horse, it wasn't that much more weight
with the woman.  She didn't look to be to heave, and when he lifted her
onto the horse, she didn't understand she was riding not him, she wasn't
heavy at all.  
	Just after noon he could see a patrol from the Warren, if those weren't
Warren riders he had met this morning.  He waved but doubted they saw him. 
It would be a long ride.


	NRPG: This is my first post, how was it?  Any suggestions?  I would like
the critisizm thanks.
Darren Hunter
Roland Brock