Inayat

Brynleigh and Conrob: I'll just write these two together as you almost never see them apart. The newly wed couple are as happy as ever it would seem, not much else to say about this couple. Currently on a trip with Baldmar.

Sareva: An enterprising and kind hearted tailor with a keen interest in seeing all of her potential customers safe. She is more aware of the troubles of the world then any other local I have talked to and seemed to empathize with my plight and as such I enjoy talking to her. Perhaps a little too clever for her own good.

Leaves rustle as the warm summer breeze rushes through the trees and the water rushes along the stream that ran through the village, Aren smiles as those sounds are joined the clip clopping of heavy hooves, plodding along the paved bridge. Flowers were blossoming in the village as the sun shone down, a warm and bright day to match his emotions. He was home at last.

Arenborn had returned to Bree-land, his journey back from Gondor taking much time, which he had used to think. He had, not wasted, but failed to use his time in Bree effectively. He knew what he wanted in life, and how he could get it, so why had he ignored it? This is of course, the Knights of Eriador. He had met members of the secretive organisation the last time he was in Bree, and they had welcomed him to their ranks. However, he had not spent much time with them, preferring to spend it with Tosie, or with a large quantity of alcohol.

Is it possible to gloss over horror and wickedness, with something so simple as love? Can grace or forgiveness or compassion or any other kind thing, somehow blanket these dark stains, without ever truly dealing with them, to a point where you can simply step over them and pretend they no longer exist? It seems as though that is what people are trying to do right now. And I want it to work. I want the smiles and jests and hugs and well-wishes to make everything better, to erase the cloud that hovers over me. To help me forget. 

But it isn't working.

I've gotten off to a rather slow start today. Blame it on that big, cuddly prospector. I lose all sense of time when we are together. 

Together, or not at all.

The words run through Arenborn Kolten’s mind. They blot out most of his thoughts, distracting him from all but the soft fingers locked with his, the fiery red hair resting against his shoulder, and the familiar scent of Inayat, like long grass in the wind.