Amon Raith, it was called. On top of a hill, the ruins of an old tower are still visible along the Kingsfell Road. It is populated by refugees driven away from their farms and homes by the roving bands of Orcs who have taken up positions in the North Downs. Also frequented by travelers who take shelter there when the sun sets and darkness, or should one say, more darkness descends on the hill.
Here, atop the ruined tower, is where the young woman practiced her art. Lyfrid, versed in the casting of pale blue rune stones, would snare travelers by allowing them to ask one question of her stones. Those questions always produced answers, surprising answers, informed answers. The once strangers became clients because they would nearly always want to ask more questions but the courtesy of a reading ended with the first unless silver was placed in her upturned palm.
Having filled her coin pouch one afternoon, satisfied with the days work, the Seer collected her horse from the care of Pothlír. She rode quickly, it was beginning to get dark and the Orcs were more difficult to detect in the dark, unless one happened to be on the right, or is it the wrong, side of the wind.
She crossed the great chasm called Cirith Núr, across the Trestlespan, into Trestlebridge unnoticed. Since the fire, she had been living in the cinder-like town after Harugrim rescued and hid her there for her own safety. Everyone in Arrowhaven thought she perished in the Warhorse fire. What stuck in her craw, however, was even if any of them thought she lived or died, none of the cared enough else they would have looked for her, said a few words of passing for her. They did nothing. Something Lyfrid would never forget.
Typically, the guards on the south side of the village were no where to be seen which she noticed on her way toward the stable master's paddock. Lyfrid handed the reins of her horse to the stableman then walked around the side of the enclosure, her destination her little cottage. In the tall grass on the side of the incline she noticed a sound and for a moment, she thought, something moved. The small woman stopped dead in her tracks, instinct demanded it. Then she heard something again, a faint but clear voice, "help... please."
Using her staff, she carefully pushed aside the grass and saw one bloodied hand of a Man. Pushing more of the grass aside, she saw his face, just as his eyes closed and he drifted into unconsciousness. She rushed over to him at first but stopped motionless. Now she was faced with a decision and no time for rune stones. What to do next?
