Sometimes Wraithvine went to places Bibrid could not go. The dragon, in guise of a gnome, would wait with patience for his friend to return. A small being with a misshapen foot, now older and with a home of their own, was seen hobbling along the path with a cane. Wort smiled, seeing their friend, and sat down the pack of firewood they were carrying so the two could sit and chat a while.
@internutter/challenge-04470-l086-magical-gifts -- Anon Guest
There are some places where Dragons cannot tread. It may seem incongruous in a world made for and by Dragons, but they are the results of the earliest of the Xenophobia Wars. Some call them scars. Some called them sanctuaries.
Bibrid called them pains in his ass.
Which was why he was biding his time in a small township outside the borders he could not cross. He assisted with the local apothecary and the healer's hospice. Keeping his efforts subtle and hard to detect. Paranoia was a hard habit to kick, given his history.
He took his lunch break on a bench in the sunshine, more to soak in the light and warmth than to actually eat. That was how he spotted a familiar face.
They had grown old, bent, and grey, but Bibrid knew them. They had a brace and a cane to help them walk. Their face had grown wrinkled and careworn, but Bibrid recognised them.
"Wort?"
He turned. Squinted. "Bibrid? It's been years and you've never aged a day."
"Flatterer," said Bibrid. "Do you have time to sit with an old friend?"
"All the time of my life, now I'm retired," said Wort. He put down a basket full of firewood from his back. "And a great love of warm benches in the sunshine."
It was a slow day for the hospice, so nobody minded Bibrid's absence, and Wort's firewood could bide until dusk. So they had all day for catching up with each other.
A pleasant interlude between adventures.
[Photo by Eric Prouzet on Unsplash]
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