A Shield of Pine

The quiet of the table held me long enough. Morning demanded a broader perimeter, so I descended from the timber legs and marched outward to the threshold of the balcony. Outside the glass, a heavy pinecone lay rolling against the door rail in the low morning wind. I grounded the spiked butt of my crozius into the rough concrete grit and leaned my armored shoulder into its woody scales. It gave way with a dry, resinous crackle before wedging tight between my greave and the sill, locking the draft outside. A stout wooden barrier for the flank.