Adventure of Herrid 2

Morning hangs pale over Dihdignoir’s upper boughs. Herrid stands in his cottage doorway, keys in hand, with the tournament grounds somewhere beyond the trees.

He checks the latch, then the window bars, then the salt line at the sill. One by one, the little wards settle into place with a faint green shimmer.

Nog waits by the steps, broad snout lifting at every scent. Anoa grooms one horn with brisk, offended precision. Jar stands still as a carved monument, already between Herrid and the road.

A boot scrape comes from the path. Someone is watching the gate to Herrid’s yard.

The Stranger is a lean courier in mud-spattered travel leathers, one hand raised in peace and the other near a rolled notice tied with red string.

Nog snorts, eager. Anoa’s ears angle forward. Jar shifts one heavy step, the clay in his joints grinding softly as the gate waits open behind them.

Nog thumps the step with eager fists. Anoa stops preening and watches Herrid like the answer matters. Jar’s clay hum deepens, patient and solid.

The three of them look to Herrid at once, ready, expectant, and waiting for what he does with that answer.

Brin’s rolled notice hangs at his side while the yard goes quiet around Herrid’s answer. The tension on the threshold eases, not into celebration, but into shared certainty.

Jar’s clay hum deepens once, like a stone door settling shut. He steps a half pace closer, taking position without needing instruction.

Nog huffs with bright impatience, already imagining the matchups. Anoa tips her chin up, pleased, as if the whole cottage has finally stopped doubting her horns.

Herrid names Nog, Anoa, and Jar to Brin in a steady voice. Brin’s grip tightens on the notice, then loosens as he nods and scratches each name onto the bracket slip.

He folds the updated slip back into the rolled bracket and holds it out across the threshold.

The courier lets go at once, relieved to be done with it. The ward-light still glows in the cottage windows, and the open gate frames the quiet yard behind him.

Brin shifts his weight, already ready to leave, but his eyes flick once toward the names he has just written. The bracket is in Herrid’s hands now, and the next question waits on the paper.

Herrid leaves Herrid's cottage in Dihdignoir behind and arrives at the tournament.

The tournament grounds open around Herrid in bright banners, packed earth, and the scent of trampled grass. Ahead, a clerk’s table waits beneath a striped awning, and the line to register has thinned to almost nothing.

Herrid presents the bracket slip and the clerk stamps it with a crisp thud, then marks the team roster beside Nog, Anoa, and Jar. The ink is still wet when she slides back a square token threaded on cord.

Nog shifts closer, nostrils flaring at the noise and meat smoke beyond the ropes, while Jar stands like a sentry behind them, the token briefly catching the light in Herrid’s hand.

Herrid looks past the clerk’s table and catches the warm-up ring in full. It is not a dueling pit, but a proving yard, with marked lanes, moving dummies, hanging targets, and a few creature-sized hurdles spaced to test speed, control, and obedience.

A bell rings once, and a trainer in a red sash sends a pair of entrants through the course. They are not being judged on bruises, but on how cleanly they answer each obstacle, how quickly they regroup, and whether their partners listen under pressure.

Nog’s ears twitch at a swinging target, and he lowers his shoulders as if already wanting to charge it. Jar’s weight shifts forward, then settles again, patient as a wall.

The clerk taps the token in Herrid’s hand, then points toward the lane entrance, where the first pair steps off and leaves the next opening waiting. The choice is no longer what the ring is, but who Herrid sends first.

Herrid gives Anoa the token-cord and a small nod toward the lane entrance. She takes it at once, ears lifting, and steps out from the awning with sudden purpose.

The clerk’s quill pauses, then scratches a fresh line beside Anoa’s name as she is marked for the next run. The first lane clears.

Nog rocks back on his heels, watching her with hungry interest, while Jar turns his heavy head to follow the route she will take.

Anoa reaches the lane gate and pauses there, shoulders squared, waiting for Herrid’s next choice as the course dummies resume their slow, testing march.

Herrid gives the smallest go-ahead, and the lane gate stays open for all three. The clerk’s quill scratches once more, finalizing the shift from single run to team run.

Nog lumbers to the threshold first, snorting at the moving dummies as if they are already challengers. His shoulders roll loose, eager and ready.

Anoa plants herself just inside the course line, ears high, then flicks a proud look back toward Herrid before facing forward again.

Jar steps in after her, clay feet settling with a heavy hush. He squares his body between the lane and Herrid by habit, then turns to the course.

The first dummy glides into place ahead of them, and the trio answer it with different stances, not one of them waiting for the others now.

The choice lands cleanly. What had been a question at the gate is now a committed team entry, and the lane holds all three creatures at once.