Cymaru

Donhelm sat in front of the fireplace in the corridor of the Prancing pony inn. The late evening sun shone through the heavy glass, painting pools of pink light on to the wooden floor. In the next room a group of people were celebrating someones birthday, snatches of conversation drifted to him in between the songs of a minstrel. He heard one man saying to another that they should invite the stranger at the fire to join them since he looked so melancholy, His companions reply was heard by all in the room. “Never invite the whoremaster!

A hundred roofs and chimneys, highlighted by the rising moon ensnare my eyes as the west-gate locks behind me. The road ahead becomes strangely compelling, climbing eastwards through the town, leading my eyes to the looming Menelvagor glittering in the night sky, guarding ceaselessly over the homes of these men. The rustic air is strong here as I wander up the paved street and processions of creaking wood and sharp snaps follow my strides from the many window shutters eitherside. The Swordsman becomes my only companion along this lonely road.

World seems smaller than I thought or maybe it’s my past chases me everywhere...

I stopped counting the days after I left the house of Kharads’... I know that it must have been more than four months since I came to Bree but I wonder how long passed since the last time I saw someone I know before? Four years? Maybe more…

The gentle cawing of birds sifted through the open pane. The scent of a spring morn and grass clearing the dust and cobwebs. Joy awoke as the breeze drifted across her skin, raising her head from the table which had left its grain upon her cheek. The house was relatively still, which she was thankful of; it meant she had not overslept, or so the thoughts told her as they ran about her still sleep ridden mind. She was exhausted but she was able to find the effort to raise herself from her chair and wander over toward the bedroom.