There were few things quite like looking up to see an angry dragonrider glaring down at you, much less a Councilor.

"And I thought," Anara said, tone tightly controlled—a sure warning sign to any who knew her well—"that this would be a nice, short, uneventful camping trip. It would appear I was wrong." She set down the firewood she'd collected a hair harder than she needed to and straightened, folding her hands behind her back. The leather of her riding gloves creaked. Her eyes flicked from person to person, dragon to dragon, and narrowed into hazel slits.

"Odell, put the man down," she snapped. "Walsh, for gods' sake, put the [i]bow[/i] down. And you—" Her gaze settled on the spiky black beast in their midst. "That's Razeth. Which means this young man would be Axon Sarai. And that means—"

The ground trembled, and a branch snapped overhead. There was suddenly a very large, very irritated silver head looming a handful of feet above Anara's head, her black hair crackling with static. Inirath had been just about to lay down for a nap until her rider's surprise stirred her, and that was [i]never[/i] a good time to be around the thunder dragon. She valued her sleep so very much.

"—that you had better start explaining how and [i]why[/i] you're here, Sarai."