Thalien stepped into the tent soaked like a newborn, water cascading in heavy rivulets from the hem of his cloak. He aided a particularly stubborn pool of rainwater caught in the folds of the fabric by finally unbuckling the clasp and letting the heavy wool thud onto the grass.
"It's coming down hard out there, isn't it?" a voice drifted from the dimness of the tent's interior.
"Brother," Thalien grunted with a sigh.
Arnold was sitting on the edge of his cot, a thick volume resting in the palm of his hand. His brother had always been the one for books when he was not on the field; where Thalien saw ink on parchment as a swirling nest of vipers, Arnold found a quiet sort of peace.
