Thrymm

        The howling wind, burdened with the burning snow of the northern mark, grazed the ridge before the plains. Nine shadows stood tall, nine pairs of keen eyes looked at the open plain and the hill upon the center, on it the fortress of heaps of stone and iron standing guard. The tall, young earl took heavy steps down the hill as he gazed upon yonder.

Régnwald opened his eyes after what seemed like winters to him. A grim, worried expression growing in his lined features as he turned to gaze upon the maiden. What has she said, he thought. A hand finding the moisted rag embracing his chest, and he once attempted to study his wound, a deep sigh of pain following, which would mayhap be enough for Faerhild to wake up if she had not.