Literature
79th Street Station pt. 143
A pair of ravens settled on the unoccupied cross a few hundred paces from the hilltop. They fluttered their wings, as if shaking the road dust of out traveler's capes. Magdalene turned her head. Black, somber birds. Quietly watching the scene. Had the old gods sent them? The lord himself? Or some unseen hand? They felt strangely out of place. Ravens are not the most festive birds, but these ones radiated somber grief and defeat. The one-born still let out a gasp now and then. The legionnaires standing guard turned and faced the source and cast tell-tale glances to each other.
The faint voice begged for water. The youngest legionnaire put down his shield and bent down towards the jar. Water mixed with soured wine. The drink of the common men at arms. No fancy herbs or spices. No fresh grapes. Water from the nearest well made drinkable with as little soured wine as possible. Vinegar, fancy folks called it. Not that they drank it. They would season particular sauces with it, or add it to
