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Description
This is a preview of a novel I'm working on,
illustrated magnificently by my good friend TheAvatar626 .

This is the text, for those who have trouble with the font in the image:

    “Whenever that shall be,” he murmured to himself. He slowed his cane-hobbling pace, like a tired, doddering, old man taking care where he stepped. “Come now … Come n—”

    “Dinnae ye think that’s far enough, Master Ecrivur?” she suddenly called out.

    Bastion glanced back. There she was, some fifty feet back, with an unsheathed dirk in her hand and an affable smile on her face. She was alone, too, as far as he could tell. He half turned and said, “Why, Dame Runda! What brings Your Ladyship all the way out here?”

    “Ye missed our appointment. Which filled me with—heh!—disappointment, I must sa—”

    “What? My apologies, but I must confess I be a little deaf!”

    Surprised, she took a few steps closer. Forty feet. “I said ye missed our appointment.”

    Bastion leaned nearer on one hand, using his cane as a support. His other hand was hidden now within a fold of his cloak. “You say you brought me some ointment? Very kind, but you didn’t have to come all this way to do that. Your Ladyship could have sent it by the post.”

    Exasperated, she took a few more steps. Thirty feet. “Nae, our appointment!”

    Beneath the cover of his cloak, he drew a small pencilknife from a sheath on his belt, then carefully turned it so that he held it by the blade. The edge was against his palm now, cold and razor thin. He made himself squeeze down. “What? Could Your Ladyship speak up, please?”
Annoyed, she took a few more steps. Twenty feet. Finally close enough. “Mater Ecrivur, I dinnae ken what game ye think ye’re playing, but—”

Description
This is a preview of a novel I'm working on,
illustrated magnificently by my good friend TheAvatar626 .

This is the text, for those who have trouble with the font in the image:

    “Whenever that shall be,” he murmured to himself. He slowed his cane-hobbling pace, like a tired, doddering, old man taking care where he stepped. “Come now … Come n—”

    “Dinnae ye think that’s far enough, Master Ecrivur?” she suddenly called out.

    Bastion glanced back. There she was, some fifty feet back, with an unsheathed dirk in her hand and an affable smile on her face. She was alone, too, as far as he could tell. He half turned and said, “Why, Dame Runda! What brings Your Ladyship all the way out here?”

    “Ye missed our appointment. Which filled me with—heh!—disappointment, I must sa—”

    “What? My apologies, but I must confess I be a little deaf!”

    Surprised, she took a few steps closer. Forty feet. “I said ye missed our appointment.”

    Bastion leaned nearer on one hand, using his cane as a support. His other hand was hidden now within a fold of his cloak. “You say you brought me some ointment? Very kind, but you didn’t have to come all this way to do that. Your Ladyship could have sent it by the post.”

    Exasperated, she took a few more steps. Thirty feet. “Nae, our appointment!”

    Beneath the cover of his cloak, he drew a small pencilknife from a sheath on his belt, then carefully turned it so that he held it by the blade. The edge was against his palm now, cold and razor thin. He made himself squeeze down. “What? Could Your Ladyship speak up, please?”
Annoyed, she took a few more steps. Twenty feet. Finally close enough. “Mater Ecrivur, I dinnae ken what game ye think ye’re playing, but—”