Fate

Sicbur sat in the warm inn gazing out the window. A solitary Rogana leaf clung to life, despite the strong Autumnal wind that raged against. He opened his mouth, to draw his companions attention to the struggle, then closed it with a sigh. The wind had won and even now was spiriting the diamond shaped leaf away like a battle trophy.

Sicbur was not, by nature, a philosophical creature. Few Dwarves were. He had however begun to notice a disturbing trend of late; whenever he tempted Fate, Fate answered.

At first, he put it down to coincidence…like that time in the pouring rain when they had been forced to enter cursed woods. He had asked ‘what else could go wrong?’ An innocuous question, often asked by adventures in bad times; a pack of hungry wolves had attacked. Such things were the nature of blighted woods, or so he had thought.

It had, unfortunately, only been the start. A simple query as to ‘how a boat remained afloat with so much weight aboard,’ resulted in said boat sinking. A ‘tired of rain’ utterance resulted in a snowstorm, in the middle of summer. Then just two nights ago, during the middle watch, he had muttered ‘who in their right mind attacks well armed folk on a mountain side in the pitch black.’ The result was lunatics attacking said well armed folk on a mountain side in the dark.

“You’re getting good. I recall when you had to speak before Fate reacted,” his friend Shadowfox said.

“Fate hates me,” Sicbur said with a sigh.

“Nonsense, if she hated you, she’d have killed you years ago,” Elora said. “I think she likes you.”

Sicbur, for the first time in his life, was utterly speechless.

(Word Count 290(ish) but less than 300!)