A Ranger's Life

The open sky your roof and the moon for night-candle. A grey cloak for bedding, shelter and concealment all alike.

For weeks you hear no voice other than the eternal wind scouring the dry grass on the hills. No eyes meet yours but the opaline glare of wolves just outside the ring of firelight. Rough wool, sodden leather, chilled steel are all that your fumbling, chilblained fingers touch.

Your reward? A sullen stare from a fat innkeeper as he grudgingly draws you a pint; respectable women pulling their skirts and children aside as you pass them in the muddy lanes.

[A birthday gift for fileg, who said "my keyword is Ranger".]