Ward

Dot made a face, like it was painful to be downwind of the seemingly homeless man; Roger started and rushed to put $5 in his hand. "What in the hell are you doing?" Dot asked, surprised and annoyed. "That's Ward," he replied. She shrugged and waited for more words. "It's WARD," Roger repeated, slowly and loudly as if it would help her general comprehension. "And I am DOT," she offered then, hoping he felt like the idiot she believed him to be. Roger sighed. "The smell is ... a careful concoction of garlic, hawthorn berries, and the dust of rusted iron (his pockets are full of shavings). He starts at sunrise in the north and follows the light until it sets in the west, sprinkling salt and living water from the river. Every day, he draws the barrier between us and everything that wants to hunt here (in a natural or unnatural form)." "He's drawing a circle of protection?" Dot responded, incredulous. "He is the ward," Roger whispered. "Living and breathing. It's a good omen to see him; it's rare. Not quite as rare as spotting one of the Watchtowers, but ... rare." "One of the watch ...," Dot started, and Roger just shook his head.