Averel

Swords. What strange things they can be. I mean not the way they can deal death, rather, that some seem to have a life of their own.

Bronna was pleased for the short respite from her mother's constant complaints about Captain Denholm. That alone was a good reason for her to carry the supplies Hildfrith had prepared for Ealdbriht, down to the man at the Garrison stables. 

The girl, Bronaa, stands by the table before me, and recites the tale I have told her. The hearth fire is lit, because although the days are still mostly bright, the Harvest Season is upon us, and the evenings can be touched by a chill finger at times.

The clouds were racing across the sky, like a drawn out white fluffy hunt of horses, riders and hounds, Bronaa thought. She stroked back her hair from her forehead and smoothed it behind her ears, tipping her face up to the thin morning sunlight. The cool wind was about her face as she delighted in taking larger than usual breaths. Ah, it felt good after the storm clouds, the gray and red sky of battle.

It is time to move on from the battle, for all of Bancross. 

It is time for me to set in motion those actions that will see my village regain its grasp on a normal, everyday life. 

((The kin members do not feel happy continuing writing the series of battles in this planned story line at the moment, due to world events. This is a short winding up of the tale so far. Others may post their summary as well. Further writing after the summaries will focus on more peaceful matters. )) 

I ride to Bancross, trusted Ealdbriht as my solitary guard. Better one who will stand with me than five, any of whom may stab me in the back. 

Too Late?

Have I left it too late?

What sort of man am I become, that lies and false promises drip from my quill and from my tongue? I was raised to hold honour highly, to speak truth, or not at all. I was raised to hold to my word, to keep any oaths I uttered, any promises I made.

For what is a man without his honour?