Older than Wagons, and More Slow
“There weren't always dragons in the Valley,” Old Sulien told me one day, as we stood together on the precipice, looking out over the patchwork of fields and farmhouses entrusted to our protection. He was getting frail now, and seemed not much longer for this realm of solid things. He leant into the gale, anchored by that gnarly old staff of his. It always gave me confidence, that staff, eyesore that it was, and he held it more firmly than ever now, as if borrowing its strength. He was spry, but there wasn’t much of him these days, and even I was feeling the lift of that wind. And there was plenty of me.
I pulled my shawl around me and tried to focus on the staff.
