Ryn of Avonside

“This wind is nuts!” I yelled as I struggled with the umbrella. Not that it was doing much good. The three of us were already sodden and miserable, so the flimsy plastic and metal wasn't even good as moral support.

We were trying to get to our next class, but a storm had rolled in over Avonside University out of nowhere, and we were trapped, huddled behind some modernist steel monstrosity in a vain attempt to get out of the wind.

Bray looked miserable in his thin T-shirt, huddling up against the metal sculpture, while his friend—whose name I still hadn’t gotten—looked slightly more comfortable in her similar getup.

“Here, let me take it,” she called over the wind, her hands already reaching for the rebellious umbrella.

I hesitated for a moment, then nodded and carefully passed it to her. She looked like she could probably lift me over her head with a little effort. That wasn’t to say she was all muscle or anything, but there was enough definition in her arms to let me know I’d get my ass beat if it came to that. Which it wouldn’t, because conflict is scary.

“You boys ready to make a run for it?” she yelled, grinning with amusement and a note of challenge.

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