The following day dawned grey and chilly. A sharp wind blew through the trees and twitched at leaves that were beginning to change to shades of autumn.
When Tarkyn finally emerged nursing a sore head, the air of celebration had completely evaporated but the acceptance of him had not. He was greeted by friendly, relaxed nods from those woodfolk who were still clustered around the breakfast fire. Someone thrust a bowl of porridge and a cup of warm tea into his hands as he sat down with his back against a tree.
Summer Rain looked over at him, “Would you like something for your head?” she asked sympathetically.
Tarkyn squinted at her and nodded. “Ow. That hurt. Yes please. Probably a double dose of whatever you were going to give me.”
Thunder Storm and Waterstone walked into the clearing,
