He's known of the glade for a couple of years, since the crows led him there; secret, secluded, quiet but for old echoes that faintly thrum in his teeth and itch in his throat. A circle of churned earth and blasted vegetation being gradually reclaimed by the woods, by grasses and flowers and shrubs, ringed about with splintered stumps and, farther back, trunks from which the bark has been stripped, flayed. After some consideration he'd decided it was where lightning had struck, and spent several long afternoons thereafter poking around for the thunderbolt that - so he'd read - might be found buried at the centre of the circle.
Here, now, on a sunlit morning at Winter's end, the clearing is still, quiet as the pause between one breath and the next; snow clings to the shaded spots and hollows, but elsewhere early spring flowers turn bright faces to the sun.
The squire picks his way carefully through the woods, a little beetle picking his way over the drab brown of last autumn's leaves and past the tentative greens of this spring's new growth. Arrayed in black from head to toe - iron pot helm and battered plate at shoulders, elbows and knees all darkened with stove polish; scavenged Militia coat too large by far for his narrow frame; strips of broadcloth at his throat and bound about thin legs from knee to ankle to ward off the chill - he seems more like a child draped in his father's clothes than anything. And yet there are martial touches here and there: the sturdy little falchion blade sheathed at his hip, the intricately-carved spear he carries with a scrap of white linen tied near the head, a flag or pennant of sorts.
The proceeds with wary determination, head turning this way and that to keep an eye on the woods around him, dark eyes wide and alert beneath the brim of his helmet; a pause, just briefly, at the edge of the clearing, to lift his gaze to the treetops, to the wisps of high cloud far above, to the crows that lurk like inkblots in the tops of the trees or circle like flecks of soot overhead.
A steadying breath before he squares his shoulders, straightens his back, marches to the rotten trunk that sprawls at the centre of the clearing. Youthful features set in what he hopes is stoic and resolute and does not betray the hammering of his heart behind his ribs.
At the fallen trunk he hunts in his satchel for a moment to retrieve a couple of items - something about the size of two fists, neatly wrapped in clean linen; an earthenware bottle of the sort used by labourers and farmhands, tightly corked. These he places atop the rotten trunk, then steps smartly back a half-dozen paces, turning slowly to survey the encircling trees. A deep breath, purposefully slow; then another, and another. He licks lips suddenly dry, and casts about for a moment for a handful of snow to suck on, the cold stinging his tongue and gnawing at his teeth.
Fingers tightening about the haft of that makeshift flag, he draws a deeper breath yet and lifts his head to call to the treeline.
"Red D-dragon!"
His voice is hoarse, raw, and quickly swallowed by the waiting woods.