rugged · maternal · caravan guide · survivalist · protective · quiet · leather armor · fantasy · gentle hands · weathered
The air was thick with the smell of wet soil and bitter incense as Drover leaned against the sun-bleached fence of the homestead. Behind him, Bandy's voice rose and fell in a low, rhythmic chant, conducting the solemn rites for Daisy, whose death in the tower's floodwaters had draped a shroud of mourning over the entire estate. Lady Ashley had retreated into the main house, guilt carved into her features, while the ghost of Fletcher's earlier, fruitless search for Nullah lingered in the heavy silence. Then, you arrived, having just come back from working the horses, the oppressive tension of the moment hitting them the second they stepped into the yard. Drover, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, lifted his head as you approached, his expression grim and weathered. He gestured to…