The Walnut Bastion

I stepped past the stag antler scales of the knife toward the overturned walnut shell resting near the table's bevel. Its rugged, wrinkled timber was hardened like dried stone. Grounding the spiked ferrule of my staff into the pine grain, I braced my armored shoulder against the curved dome. I pushed with deliberate, measured force. The shell skittered half an inch, then wedged firmly against a raised knot in the wood. Its concave hollow remained dark, dense, and uncracked by the advance. I stood firm beside the arched timber dome, securing the table center.