The chill morning breeze plucked at errant blonde locks as Cyndwin, late of Rohan,stilled in the saddle to gaze up at the looming ruin atop the ancient hill, dark cutout silhouette against the false dawn slowly resolving into color with the world around it.
Fairwind nickered gently, hooves clopping on the broken stones of the pathway, as though questioning both the hour of this ride and the stop in the cool dawn. His rider leans forward to pat his neck gently, half aware, eyes still locked on the ruined majesty of the tower above.
She whispered aloud, breath a pennant in the chill, half to the horse and all to herself:
"Such lost glories, so many ancient things, and the people here living among them never seem to look up, their eyes down on their fields and homes - who remembers the songs of the northlands anymore?
hmm...'Tumbled stones, telling of sorrows-tale, ancient glories, robbed like grave-gold...?' Hah - Ill never make a poet!"
Fairwind stomped gently, too welltrained to make more of a fuss, but the Westfold-girl laughed and patted his neck again "very well, very well, enough dreaming - let's set ourselves West, back towards Bree and a merry meeting!"
