never really thought she would
act like just another human and die. She was always there to tell him how he looked, to
tell him what he should wear - to be his friend. And now she was gone.
She had died all alone in this old, dilapidated shack.
He peered inside and, for the first time, focused on the picture that loomed over Kyra's
body. Tosch's eyes opened wide. It was Seron, just the way he used to be. It was a
magnificent likeness that caught every bit of character, every nuance of emotion, in the
long-dead painter's face.
The dragon stuck his head farther inside and saw scores upon scores of Seron's image.
Seron in every imaginable pose and activity. But Tosch's gaze kept coming back to the picture on the easel. The
paint on that one was still wet. He knew that this had been Kyra's last, impassioned work.
He had never known, never guessed, what she had been painting all these years. Even now,
staring at the evidence of Kyra's lifelong devotion to Seron, Tosch could only shake his
head in wonder. He couldn't quite understand how she could have loved Seron so much. But
then again, maybe he could. After all, didn't he love her in his own way, too?
He felt his wings quivering and he knew he was going to do a rare thing - he was going to
cry. Kyra had meant so much to him, and he had done so little for her. He felt suddenly
ashamed, realizing that he had been selfish, always taking. Why didn't he give her gold
dust for her clothes? Why didn't he chisel her teeth, too? He could have done all sorts of
things for her. But he hadn't. And what could he give her now?
He stared at her limp, cold body and then lifted his gaze to the painting of Seron. Then
he looked a bit closer . . . Something was missing. The picture didn't seem quite right. He studied it for a long, quiet moment, trying to discover what was overlooked.
Ah, I know what it is, Tosch said to himself. It's so obvious! He spoke a magical
incantation and then slapped his tail against the ground three times.
Kyra was in the picture with Seron. Now it was right.
They were laughing and crying in each other's arms alive in their art. Within the bounds
of the canvas, Seron and Kyra were living, breathing, loving souls.
Tosch flapped his wings with joy. He had made Kyra happy. When he turned to fly away, he
heard Seron say to his beloved, “You are ALL the woman I had hoped you would be.”
“Now THAT'S a good painting,” said the dragon as he flew off into the night. “Then again,”
he mused as he soared among the clouds, “a little more color wouldn't have hurt”
Hunting Destiny Nick O'Donohoe By daylight, the stag, with an effort of will, appeared to the knight. The knight's
enthusiasm was gratifying, if anything could please in Darken Wood. The knight even
mentioned Huma's having followed the stag. The stag moved forward on Prayer's Eye Peak, knowing the knight and his companions would follow. If
it was his destiny to lead, it was others' to follow him.
But they did not follow immediately. With one ear he heard the company debating behind
him. The half-elf said, “Though I have not seen the white stag myself, I have been with
one who has and I have followed it, as in the story the old man told at the Inn of the
Last Home.”
The stag, turning to look, saw the half-elf fingering a ring of twisted ivy leaves,
presumably because it reminded him of his former companion who had seen the stag. Neither
half-elf nor ring brought any memory to the stag.
The mage among them, a robed figure with hourglass eyes, spoke more of the story they had
heard, apparently a few nights ago, at an inn. An old man had told how Huma, lost in a
forest, prayed to Paladine. A white stag had appeared and led him home. “That I remember,”
the stag thought, “but I had thought no other living being did. Whatever man they met was
old indeed, though if he were older, he would remember it
act like just another human and die. She was always there to tell him how he looked, to
tell him what he should wear - to be his friend. And now she was gone.
She had died all alone in this old, dilapidated shack.
He peered inside and, for the first time, focused on the picture that loomed over Kyra's
body. Tosch's eyes opened wide. It was Seron, just the way he used to be. It was a
magnificent likeness that caught every bit of character, every nuance of emotion, in the
long-dead painter's face.
The dragon stuck his head farther inside and saw scores upon scores of Seron's image.
Seron in every imaginable pose and activity. But Tosch's gaze kept coming back to the picture on the easel. The
paint on that one was still wet. He knew that this had been Kyra's last, impassioned work.
He had never known, never guessed, what she had been painting all these years. Even now,
staring at the evidence of Kyra's lifelong devotion to Seron, Tosch could only shake his
head in wonder. He couldn't quite understand how she could have loved Seron so much. But
then again, maybe he could. After all, didn't he love her in his own way, too?
He felt his wings quivering and he knew he was going to do a rare thing - he was going to
cry. Kyra had meant so much to him, and he had done so little for her. He felt suddenly
ashamed, realizing that he had been selfish, always taking. Why didn't he give her gold
dust for her clothes? Why didn't he chisel her teeth, too? He could have done all sorts of
things for her. But he hadn't. And what could he give her now?
He stared at her limp, cold body and then lifted his gaze to the painting of Seron. Then
he looked a bit closer . . . Something was missing. The picture didn't seem quite right. He studied it for a long, quiet moment, trying to discover what was overlooked.
Ah, I know what it is, Tosch said to himself. It's so obvious! He spoke a magical
incantation and then slapped his tail against the ground three times.
Kyra was in the picture with Seron. Now it was right.
They were laughing and crying in each other's arms alive in their art. Within the bounds
of the canvas, Seron and Kyra were living, breathing, loving souls.
Tosch flapped his wings with joy. He had made Kyra happy. When he turned to fly away, he
heard Seron say to his beloved, “You are ALL the woman I had hoped you would be.”
“Now THAT'S a good painting,” said the dragon as he flew off into the night. “Then again,”
he mused as he soared among the clouds, “a little more color wouldn't have hurt”
Hunting Destiny Nick O'Donohoe By daylight, the stag, with an effort of will, appeared to the knight. The knight's
enthusiasm was gratifying, if anything could please in Darken Wood. The knight even
mentioned Huma's having followed the stag. The stag moved forward on Prayer's Eye Peak, knowing the knight and his companions would follow. If
it was his destiny to lead, it was others' to follow him.
But they did not follow immediately. With one ear he heard the company debating behind
him. The half-elf said, “Though I have not seen the white stag myself, I have been with
one who has and I have followed it, as in the story the old man told at the Inn of the
Last Home.”
The stag, turning to look, saw the half-elf fingering a ring of twisted ivy leaves,
presumably because it reminded him of his former companion who had seen the stag. Neither
half-elf nor ring brought any memory to the stag.
The mage among them, a robed figure with hourglass eyes, spoke more of the story they had
heard, apparently a few nights ago, at an inn. An old man had told how Huma, lost in a
forest, prayed to Paladine. A white stag had appeared and led him home. “That I remember,”
the stag thought, “but I had thought no other living being did. Whatever man they met was
old indeed, though if he were older, he would remember it
Similar Books
