David Intrabartolo

The Bard of White Arbor

If the gods ever felt the urge to prefer some days over others, Cedric wagered the days after rain were their favorites. How could they choose anything else? The moist earth giving way so comfortably underfoot was only outshined by delicious purity of the air, or possibly how the leaves of the trees glowed with renewed vigor against the damp browns of the branches and trunks holding them up. The echoing exchange of birdsong shooting across the trees was pretty nice too, but at its best when accompanied by the scurrying of rabbits, squirrels or maybe the lucky sighting of bigger game. Cedric felt for the leather quiver and bow across his back, overtop his brown leather jacket, jerkin and white linen shirt. He smiled; maybe he’d get lucky. A cold gust of wind shook loose droplets of water from the leaves, giving a slight chill. He brushed a few stray strands of blond hair out of his face and behind his ear. Fragments of sunlight pierced through the forest canopy; he’d be out of White Arbor by midday.