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of the village stopped to stare at him. His unusually tall and slender body clad in green and his golden, bearded, handsome face stood out among them. He was an exotic form among the drab browns and grays of their town.
The minstrel did not see them stop to stare. He did not notice when their conversations halted as they stared after him, almost wistfully. He did not see the hungry eyes of the young ladies and the old, feeling, as they saw him, his youth and energy of purpose. He did not see the children that rushed to follow him, not even daring to touch his cloak. He walked on, oblivious to anything but a girl-creature that haunted his thoughts by the name of Lionesse.

He left the village humming to himself. The townspeople turned back to their conversations and their business, dismissing him, even as they forgot their day-dreams until the cool, silence, of night, when they could awaken again for the space of a few, short, hours.
If those that had sharp eyes had been watching, they would have seen several shadows glide soundlessly from the trees to surround him. The silent shadows gathered around him in a circle of friendship with a flash of fur and feather. Had the villagers seen it they would have remembered the old tales of the Rhiathon, that they had strange magics, magics that were frightening in their strangeness. As it was, the town had more than enough stories to tell that night.

Learn more about this author, Elizabeth Reeves.
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