A packed bag lay on a low straw bed, a sleeping Briannon lay there next to it, still asleep beneath a thin wool blanket. A smile flashed from a stool by the fire as Birchald watched her, doing absolutely nothing, he laughed quietly and shook his head. The kettle began to simmer over a small fire, time for tea. An arm stirred in the bed as he poured, and the smell of tea filled the small ramshackle dwelling with that trademark, awakening smell of morning. A strange fluttering filled his gut, he sipped his tea and turned to look at the fire.
A play one night, and a departure the very next morning, for wherever the wind took him and Briannon, who he had now decided must be of some kind of fey folk. He couldn't decide if the fluttering in his belly was excitement for the road, or nerves about his first written play, after all, the script had at first been a shambles. Rehearsals had gone well, but who knows what could happen the night of a play, the crowd might hate it, they might throw things... Even worse, they might never laugh... Today might an interesting one indeed...
