Dragonlance: The Age of Mortals

[Irving]

"Three horns."

Takyr Es-Morgayn, loyal servant of the Empire, looks up from his bones. He slides a tile into place, reshaping the pattern, adding a new direction to the ever growing line.

Perhaps if Takyr had been of a poetic bent, he would have seen a metaphor in that - something about how the tales of a Herald build the lines of fate, and shape the world, piece by piece.

Takyr, however, is not a poet. Far from it. The notion never crosses his mind. Poems are poems, heralds are heralds, and tiles are tiles. Why confuse the three?, Takyr muses, even as the other players slide their tiles into place and the trails of dominoes grows ever longer.

Never the less, Takyr sits in the front room of the Wounded Crow for the Minstrel, marking time, enduring the stares, playing endless games of Black Dots, waiting. He knows that if he waits long enough, he'll hear what we he truly wants to hear - the voice of his cousin, Zen, calling to him across the crowded hall. Zen was an inquisitive sort - he always had to find the end of the maze. And this is the most interesting thing to happen in this sun-blasted land since I came here. He'll have to be along, soon enough. And then, at last, I can find the answer.

It's Takyr's turn again. He lays a six on the caravan driver's public path. The table erupts into curses. Takyr lowers his horns oh so slightly, flicks one bovine ear, and snorts impatiently. Just to reinforce the point, he crosses his arms over his chest, displaying muscles as large and thick as thunderheads. The table rapidly quiets into submission.(1)

Soon, my cousin. I can only play so many bones.

(1) Intimidate check, taking 10, result 15.