A bright summer sun rises over the plains of the Riddermark, the bright light awakening the herds and filling the land with vibrant colours. In an old barn near a herdsman’s cottage, the light peeks through holes in the wall, specks of dust visible floating in the beams of light. One such beam falls across a hay bale, and the eyes of a young man of nineteen summers. Taraborn blinks awake, spitting long hair from his mouth as he takes in his surroundings. To his right, laying over his now dead arm, appears to be a naked lass of a similar age to himself, her golden hair sprawled across his chest and their makeshift bed.
Untangling himself from her, eliciting a soft, sleepy grumble of annoyance from her, Taraborn looks about the otherwise lifeless barn. Clothes are scattered across the floor, and his sword propped against the wall by the door. The gear for herding and riding horses hangs from the walls, saddles and bits, straps and crops. The opposite end from the door, is an old cart.
“Aelyn?”
The call is from outside, the house as far as Taraborn can tell. The deep call belonging to a large, muscular man that Taraborn had assisted the day before. Looking down at his, and Aelyns, lack of clothing, he curses and begins rushing to find his clothes.
“Aelyn!”
The shout is closer now, Taraborn has a shirt on and a boot. Finding his under garments he pulls them up and searches for the rest. Pulling his other boot on he decides to bundle his clothes inside his cloak to don later. Grabbing his sword from beside the door he looks for another exit.
“Aelyn!”
The girl wakes up to see a half dressed Taraborn sprinting across the room and leaping up onto the cart as her father charges through the open door. Screaming and covering herself she watches her father narrowly miss grabbing Taraborn by the ankle. “You dare defile my daughter?” He roars in a thick rohirric accent. Taraborn pushes open a shutter as the burly man starts to clamber up the cart. Falling out with the grave of a three legged dog, Aelyn would hear a grunt, then a curse as Taraborn lands with a thud.
Her father is back outside, racing around the barn to catch the young sellsword. He rounds the corner to see Taraborn racing away to the nearby woods.
A laugh escapes Taraborns lips. So much for eternal thanks. He thinks to himself. A pitchfork lands but two feet from him, eliciting a yelp and a burst of speed from the lad.
