Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

This is a short excerpt from Tribe of the Snow Tiger.  There really isn’t much to say about it since it’s all exposition.  I was trying to create a specific mood of turmoil since the heroes were walking into a dangerous situation.  Yet, I also wanted to give some sense of hope that it wouldn’t be that bad.  Not sure I pulled it off.

Thick rain batters the four adventurers as they plod through the northern wilderness. The thick forests of the south has been left behind and the open hills give them no protection from the pounding elements. Even though it is late summer, a cutting arctic wind whips in from the frozen regions to the east, the mixture briefly turning raindrops into hail. There are plenty of bushes with edible berries that the small party eat to extend their small food reserves. Due to the raging storm, none of the champions believe that hunting is an option and they are still about five days away from the city of Stonehelm. It is bad enough that they already lost their tents and bedrolls to a flash flood, the unexpected storm striking while they slept near a river. That combined with the bruises and cuts all of them have received from several rockslides, the adventurers have been silently miserable for the past seven hours.

An occasional glimmer of magic surrounds the champions, but Nyx’s recovering aura is unable to maintain the shield for longer than a minute. Each time the spell fails, the black-haired channeler curses and stomps her foot. Thanks to her minor outbursts, her pants are caked in mud that has gradually sloughed into her boots. Acting as a scout, Luke stays several yards ahead of his friends and repeatedly shakes water from his blonde hair like a drenched dog. He trusts Timoran to tell him if they are heading in the wrong direction, so he focuses more on sensing predators and other dangers. Many times he has had to redirect the group to avoid a lurking beast that would be too much of a hassle to fight. From the sound of the mutters and grumbles, Luke can only assume that he is being thanked for his efforts.

It is late evening when the champions find a cave that is high enough to avoid floods and has not been claimed by a temperamental predator. To be safe, Timoran roars into the entrance and watches as a few harmless creatures race out of the hole. Stripping out of their wet clothes, none of the exhausted champions care about being exposed in front of the others. Luke arches his eyebrow when he notices the scar on Nyx’s stomach, but a glare from the half-elven caster makes him hold his tongue. The women put on simple gowns while the men wear loose pants and shirts, the garments showing signs that they will not last much longer. Not a word is uttered as they eat a simple meal of trail rations around a warm fire, their clothes laid out to dry by the flickering flames. A decanter of Ifrit mead is passed around to help remove the chill from their bones, Dariana politely settling for a cup of tea made from the last of her stash. Within an hour, Nyx is snoring like a bear in the back of the cave and Luke has fallen into a deep meditative trance.

The sounds of rain dancing on the stones and distant wolf howls bring a tear to Timoran’s deep blue eyes. Childhood memories flow into the barbarian’s mind, each one bringing a wave of warmth to his anxious heart. An approaching form of white catches his attention and breaks his concentration, his strained nerves perceiving the beast as a threat. By the time the albino raccoon wanders into the cave, Timoran is gripping his tiger-striped great axe and feeling rather foolish. He leans down to sniff at the damp creature, but the sudden movement sends it scampering back into the storm. Running his hands through his red hair, the tired champion wonders again if it is wise to return to his tribe.

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