Bastwick stood with mail-covered shoulders planted against the aged exterior wall of The Earl, their camps small gathering house. Tendrils of silver swept down against his face, a few frayed and others stained with the bitter exile of sweat and loss at the hands of some random branch of a rider’s strife. Heavy jowls sunk downward, steely sight slanted against the path beyond as he waited for whatever might follow. A fire in the dark, they’d said. Hauberk bore that soft maroon color so often seen on the men of the camp. Across that worn face was blessed the firelight of a torch at his side, fingers curled in a serpentine manner about the handle of the flaming implement and Bastwick’s mismatched eyes flicked from left to right along the fields below, flames curling and fighting for freedom in a shadowed play against that stern exterior. A few men dressed in similar shades of the red attire passed beneath the Ash Wood archway, their crooked noses setting their faces with a bleak sort of expression though their mouths held a common tone to them – mirth. A mirth which curled their cracked, worn lips and lifted sullen brows high atop their foreheads as the conversation between them rose and fell in a garbled mixture of genuine joy. Each dip of cranium that fell, Bastwick matched the cause with a cordial decline of his own make. A fellow soldier stopped short of the doorway and set eyes against the face of his ally. “Are you not coming in, Bast? We’ve a load of whoosky to unload and a few men ‘ave already gone in the crates before shipping. Why are you standing out in the chill?”

A single-shouldered shrug fell, the cloak wrapped about his hearty frame sliding somewhat down the curve of his shoulder, “You know well what I’m out here waiting for, Hewetson. She’ll be up this hill in a matter of moments and no good father sits on idle hands until her face shines our Hall again.” With a chuckle, a well-gripping hand fell onto the shoulder of Bastwick as the other passed him by and into The Earl. The strains of guitar slipped from the crack of the doorway as Heweston let the door hang for several moments before its close. It was hours still before another soul ventured from the Hall and to the side of the statue post created by the silent body of Bastwick. A lithe, smaller woman waited by the son of Bast with brow knit and cobalt eyes peering over the fields as did her husband’s. Allis lifted the cup of warmed rum with a gesture and wink in his direction, “She’ll be here soon, Bastwick. The camp is truly a footprint for Rohan. Our daughter couldn’t fail to find it if her eyes were dulled and legs removed from torso. Lillika would find a way.” After a pregnant pause, Bastwick took the cup from the hand of his wife and lifted his chin to indicate the dark, dirty pathway leading up to the Hall. “I worry not, Allis. Our first born would never fail but the wait is something I’ve dreaded since she left the circle of our camp.” With not a word spoken, Allis gave a short ‘mhm’ in response to his statement. There wasn’t a thing to say. So, for hours still, man and wife stood with expectant facades hiding the torturous thumping of hearts tied to the younger face of their only born babe.

In the deepest of night she came. The noisome sounds of retching revelers faded from the air and blended back into the celebration still holding solid inside Old Earl. Boots, the fronts worn bare and seeping from within the flesh of her burned toes, buried themselves carefully with in the lax soil leading to the top of the hill. Mismatched eyes slid throughout the camp she called him, the small houses darkened to indicate not a soul dwelled within that night. At the top of the hill she saw the yellow light of a welcome home, now and again the mighty ‘thunk!’ of some exciting edition to the Hall struck the cool night air. Lillika shook her head, mind passing to the faces she knew to be there and likely to be the source of whatever was going on within those four walls. Heading onward up the hill she lifted those odd eyes in time to catch sight of two figures standing guard outside The Earl. One green eye and one blue eye fell from face to foot of her parents, the saying about their eyes rung true in her head. “Your eyes are special. The green is always watching the earth while the blue keeps track of the skies. It is by this reason you will never fail, Lillika.” There was no gleeful scream, no dropping of pack and rushing into the arms of the familiar hold, and never a tear fell from a face busted and blistered by sun and sparring. Instead, Lillika simply steadied her stance and made it to the top of the hill. Drinking in the faces of first her mother, then her father, the younger warrior bowed her head to them both. Maw parted, tongue leering out to wet lips long bare of vocals, and two words fell with so simple an invocation as to spring tears from the eyes of Allis and a broad smile lurching to Bastwick’s face. “I’m home.”

Her father stepped forward from his place, the dirt beneath him still formed with those large, heavy boots covering his feet. Two hands fell to her shoulders and eyes, mismatched like her own, scoured his daughter with such intensity as to cause Lillika to shutter a sigh. Chestnut hair, like her mother’s, held twigs and debris from her long travels. Garments were ripped and torn to reveal the dirty flesh below and the awkward places where sinew had been reunited with threat. She was beaten, battered, busted, and brutal in appearance. Face was smeared with the remnants of some sort of earthen makeup. But her eyes, oh, those eyes shone with ever the spark they held when she’d left those months before. Chin stuck out with a bitter scar and lips were corrected with a glad grin as she looked into her father’s welcoming face. “Welcome to the Æþelhérë, Lillika Erristyn. You have made the King of Rohan, this camp, as proud as ever. Aside from this…you have made us proud.” Finally, Bastwick embraced the younger female with a tighter hug than necessary. Æþelhérë was the name of their camp. Their small army was under the rule of Rohan, but their purpose was as a specialized division of the Horse Lords. Æþelhérë, they were called in Rohirric. The Noble-Army. And Lillika had left months before to fulfill the requirements of becoming one of the Æþelhérë ranks. Her father was one of those men and, if nothing else, Lillika wished to at least have the title on her history. Releasing Lillika, Allis moved in for a similar embrace and a whisper of, “Well done, my love,” into the ear of her daughter. A small wooden carving pressed into the hand of Lillika. Allis was a woodcarver of elder status. Her trinkets were sold in the main market during festival time for travelers and during meetings of high political priority for Rohan – given as treats for the travelers in good will.

As the trio finally made a move toward the entrance of The Earl, Bastwick glanced to the face of his daughter with a final question. “What comes next, my dear child?” Lillika thought about this. A small, sheepish smile flushed her face and eyes focused on the door ahead as her small voice rang out in the cold evening air, “Even Æþelhérë need to learn…” Before another word fell the three melted into the loud cheers and exuberant adoration of an extended Erristyn family.