Another writing prompt.
First lines based on this pleasant summertime image:
Maelot stood straight, straighter, and breathed too deep to force his heart to slow. Blood dripped from his smashed nose and added a bubbling tone to his words.
"Yes, I think so," he said. He swung his blades casually and they hummed in the too-warm air from the first. Frost fell from them in melting sheets; the Wrath was very cold. "She's a fast learner. You did very well, Belinda, did you have fun?"
"I did!" Belinda said, her eyes rooted to a point over her father's shoulder. He turned in time to see Maelot's assistant fork one of the survivors into the burning carriage, and smiled at the glinting wonder in her expression. "Can I come back tomorrow?"
"It's up to Maelot," the Wrath said. "Mae?"
The human made a gesture for patience, then pull and set his nose. "Godshit," he muttered, and blew bloody snot rockets on the back of man beside him. He wouldn't mind. "Yes, that would be fine. Perhaps two thirty? We should be catching up with the Prolpap Liners by then, should be a fine fight."
"Wonderful," the Wrath said. He glanced around the forest floor as if froze under his feet. "Bel, where are your shoes?"
"I don't know," she said.
The Wrath sighed. "This always happens."
"I think they're by the cook fire," Maelot said. "Let's have a look. Would you like a cup of coffee? I think one of the traders had a pot going."
"That would be lovely," the Wrath said.