Ferawyn

Ferawyn twirled the arrow shaft between her thumb and forefinger, studying it carefully. Her eyes narrowed in an attempt to discern what secrets it held. She had found the arrow sat, rather curiously, upon the outer sill of one of the windows at the Warhorse Inn. Her last visit to the Inn had left her with more than a few unanswered questions. Now, with the arrow in hand, or what remained of it, as only the tail end had been left behind, she was still not any closer to finding the answers she sought.

Leofmund's journal: 22nd day since arriving in Bree

Eofryth's workshop was in a rare state of disorder.  Normally clean, stately, fitting the pride that the Eorling blacksmith took in his work, the benches were currently covered in soot.  A black smokiness hung in the air, which was thick and hot in a way that the open windows and doors weren't helping.  Throughout the smithy, blades were lying on the floor, propped against benches and walls.

"Hold that blade firmly, now. You don't want to lose grip of it mid-combat."

"Aye, you don't say?"

Eofryth fixes his daughter with a stern look, and quietly chided himself for thinking, in a moment of fatherly hubris, that within their first lesson he'd be ready to pass his daughter a keen blade to practice with.

"And your shield's secure?"

It was Ferawyn's turn to fix her father with a stare.