Whill of Agora

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The full moon lingered like a magnificent pearl in an ocean of black. Fresh snow gave a faint crunch as the riders’ horses made their way down the old road. Cold, tired, and hungry, Whill and Abram rode silently toward Fendale.

Usually they would make camp with the setting of the sun, but not tonight. The storm they had encountered the previous two days had set them back many hours.

“We should still be in time for the Winter’s End Celebration,” Whill said.

“As long as we do not wander into another of those damned storms, we should be plenty early,” answered Abram as he scoured the woods. Something was on his mind, but Whill did not bother wondering what; he had thoughts of his own. Like the feast they would enjoy the next night, and the music. The Winter’s End Celebration of Fendale was always a great treat. It had been going on as long as anyone could remember. People came from all surrounding towns and villages to take part. Abram had brought Whill when he was only eleven years old, and Whill had marveled at all the dancers, jugglers, acrobats, and animal tamers that had performed. The knights of Eldalon had put on a mock battle, and Whill sat in awe for hours watching them dual and joust. He had read their history in the books Abram had given him as a young child. To see them in person had been a surreal experience. The celebration had lasted all day and long into the night. The food had been fit for kings, and the children had received candy. Whill, now nineteen years old, was no less excited than he had been when he was eleven.

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