“Did you not have friends in Archet with whom you could confide in such gossip?” Piper asks me over the rim of her mug of cider. We had been talking long at the table in the center of the tavern. (She had caught me outside in the rain, relishing in it, and invited me inside for a drink ere I caught cold).

“Eda? Eda, if it be possible I would speak with you, woman to woman."

It was a chilly night, the stars clearly visible with no hint of a cloud in sight. The gibbous moon shone down upon me with distant curiosity. ‘What was I doing, seeking to speak with the dead?’

The tall grass drifted in the wind as we rode across the plains not far from Edoras. Far out in the fields a tall windmill loomed, its sails slowly rotating as the rusted mechanism inside ground stone against stone, eagerly pushed on by a northern wind. A herd of wild horses grazed nearby, paying little mind as we passed. The largest stallion tilted his head and looked at me for a moment; his big, brown eyes so full of life and wild, raw and untamed emotion.

I was trembling inside. Anger, disgust, disbelief all hailed me as one . There was a short but overwhelming sense of nausea that almost caused my knees to give way.

Then came the sound of hurried footsteps ascending the stairs, as he ran to my side.

Yllfa speaks :

“Westu Goldmod hal!”

After a moment's consideration I gave my greeting to the ruddy faced guard, standing to the right of the main gate.

Flight from Edoras

For too many moons had she stared out the window of her room, which overlooked the wild plains of the Horse-lands. It had been nearly three years since the death of Foldred, and the grief still pierced her heart as fresh as the day it had happened. 

Mead Night in Edoras. Every week, locals and visitors leave the tavern much as they found it, content with mead and merry company. None, save maybe one, expected this night to be different...

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harp string, and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?