Tros Hynt

When the frost came and the grass paled, the Eorlings retreated into their halls. They burned a forest’s worth of trees in fire pits as long as ships, and their chimneys like dragons’ nostrils huffed smoke into the clear white air. Laughter and song rumbled from the bellies of their halls, and they ventured from their cities only to rob the woods of boars. 

There were fires burning in the distance, somewhere in the east. From the guard-post outside the stockade of Tros Hynt, Cerrynt couldn't tell how large, or how far, they were. That one might be a small campfire from some hunter of the Eryr-lûth nearby roasting a grouse, or it might be the burning ruins of some huge forgoil farm from which brave cymry were currently stealing horses. She had no way to know. She could only stare into the distance until her eyes swam and all points seemed as near as all others, fretting about the raid she was supposed to be part of, but was missing.