Duramarth

Lissilana had been away from Bree-land for entirely too long. She thought, after having her image of someone she loved, that leaving was the answer. That what happened was a sign for her to leave and do good elsewhere.

Another early day for Fiontann, long before the sun came up he rose from the bed and went outside to train with his swords and shield, then he went swimming at the lake and got ready for the day, as always but this time he was ready just when the first rays of light filled the sky pushing the night away.

Dear Eckardt,

Screams and the ringing of an anvil filled the halls of the citadel as Cerythael and Pellam watched The Hunter work the fire and forge for the undoing of the strange blade he had been given by The Grandmaster. 

"Who is he speaking to?"  Inquired Pellam, who looked over to Cerythael rather confused.

On the sunny day the raven came with a message tied to its leg, Sarnai was sitting in silence under a tree, sharpening her knives and watching her horse graze. She smiled at the bird, removing the parchment and letting it go. Reading slowly - her Westron, Sarnai realized with a twinge of regret, needed work - she deciphered the missive’s contents, being thorough to make sure she understood the words, then slipped it into her pack. Sarnai mounted her horse, whispering a few kind words into the animal’s ear, and rode south toward Bree-town.

Dear Eckardt,

I have received the letter of Duramarth IV not long ago. I am honoured to be considered as someone to be trusted and before the letter I didn't have any knowledge of Duramarth's actions. Now I am sending this letter in reply to the one that I got, happy to have found a possible ally and proud to able to participate in something for the greater cause.

The fresh air filled the hunters nostrils, air he had not tasted in quite some time that had once been so familiar. His tattered cloak wrapped around his slender figure, the brooch upon his breast shining like freshly polished silver. He paused for but a moment, running his fingers across the worn, weathered wooden sign that simply read ‘Arrowhaven’.

Cynraede sat staring into the fire that burned brightly in front of him. The days past had held many challanges which not only tested his nerve but his body he never could have imagined. He had killed men before, in self defence. It was all together a different story to take the lives of people who didn't take the first strike, people who merely begged for their life only to have it taken from them. Who was he to take these lives? He poked the fire with a stick as he thought these things to himself, torn between the lines he faced to find his friend.