Snippet #2404522

He pushed himself up with his good arm and watched the treant become a raging bonfire from the inside out, and heard its dying words. A shiver went down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold, and he knew that the treant meant those words. But they'd managed just fine, with only a few bruises here and there. Well, he was the only one actually bruised, but Michael was covered in snow. Quite unexpected, that the merchant would prove so valuable an asset. That penny sure had done the trick.

He looked up at Zander as he came over and laughed at his jest. "That was a graceful fall, you need to teach me how to do that." He smiled as he pushed himself to his feet and replied, "Oh I don't know Zander, it did take me many years to master the art of falling such as I just have." He rolled his shoulder experimentally and winced at the pain. It was nothing serious but it would ache for a while. After the flames died he approached the treant and removed his knife, cleaning it off with a small rag before sheathing it. He knelt next to the dead treant and found a large section that was largely undamaged. A few hacks with his bastard sword later, he had about one foot by a half foot section of perfectly good ironwood that would make a very nice handle. He stuffed it in his bag, found his walking stick and made his way back to the group, grateful for the path that Zander cleared for them.

He looked back at the dead treant, its eyes only now beginning to fall dim, and prayed under his breath that this creature would find peace after its death. He didn't know who he was praying to, anyone who bothered to listen he supposed, but he felt that something, somewhere up there, was listening. Watching. He turned back to his companions and kept walking, his conscious lightened.