The Uninvited Guest

@syrdon

The great hall of the Narts smells of roast mutton, spilled kumis, and wet felt. Firelight jumps across the low tables where heroes boast and drink, and above it all a single fandyr-string rings out, sour and deliberate, as if mocking the tune the others sing. Syrdon sits at the edge of the fire, an uninvited shadow in a feast-hall of feasters, and he turns his pale gaze to you.