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A Camp by the Windmill (Kingsfell)



Margyth tilted her head and looked up at the huge sails of the windmill, under which they had set camp last night. The sails were blocked for now, shuddering slightly in the wind and unable to move. The owner of the mill had his hands full and wasn't going to start milling flour any time soon. There was one reason and one reason only - orcs.


She looked at Wulfney sleeping on the ground not far from her. His face was shaded by the black, weathered hood, his form wrapped up in a long, thick cloak. He had his right arm under his head, his left hand on the hilt of his sword, and his back firmly to the wall. Margyth knew that he'd be ready to fight before he even fully woke up and she didn't dare approach him in his sleep. She kept a safe distance. He captured, interrogated and killed an orc scout the previous day and that image was haunting her now. She shouldn't have looked! She knew what he as going to do and she really shouldn't have looked. He killed the orc with his bare hands and she still heard the crunch of the creature's neck. She shuddered, wrapped her arms around her knees and thought longingly about the time when this man was just a foul-mouthed, ill-mannered, impossible-to-bear jester and an incorrigible philanderer who made her laugh until her stomach hurt. She sighed to herself. That man was gone now and with him gone were the good times when everything seemed simple, when everything was going well. Since then, the skies over her little world had darkened, and her companion was now a tough, serious and focused soldier.


She looked at the moon. It was getting close to midnight but there was still some movement at the nearby farm. She saw the farmer come out and stand on the porch with his huge bow in his hand. His farmhand was armed as well, and she caught only a brief glimpse of a woman when the front door was opened wide. Was it the farmer's wife? Were there there any children in that house? There could have been and maybe that's why the famous hospitality of the north had failed - the dangerous looking stranger with his bloodied hands and a scruffy looking girl were forced to sleep under the stars. Margyth was used to it though and welcomed what little privacy this set up offered. She shook her head. The time when she herself ran about her mother's farm seemed like a memory of a dream that had never happened. Nobody ever carried any weapons then, save a thick stick to fend off a stray dog. These times were gone though, gone and forgotten, and dwelling in the past wasn't going to do her any good.


She flinched when she spotted Wulf looking at her from under his hood. He smiled - a fleeting glimpse of man she knew in Bree - then sat up and complained about being hungry. Well, it was time to stop pondering and dreaming. She still had some wine and those hard biscuits baked by Deorda. She smiled at him. Time for a midnight feast!