Autumn did not come quite so swift in the southern plains of the Riddermark. While many trees boasted crowns of crimson and gold, there was still a lushness to the grass underfoot. The air would find a measure of warmth at midday, but on this particular morning, a crisp, damp breeze was frolicking over the hills near Edoras. Shredded puffs of clouds darted lowly over the heaths, throwing shadows that appeared and melted on a whim. 

The ride from Gondor into Eriador and Breeland had been reasonably quick and shockingly quiet, especially as they were travelling with a fair sized company. Xanderian, Xandilif, Finchley, Calidis, Hawke, Eduwiges, Asmalinde, Nethrida and Addiela had taken the road from Tol Lochul, with Rathvald acting as advance scout.

Patient: Man, female, young adult
Syndrome: Severe itching on her arms, inability to eat due to smells
Treatment: Cooling salve, lavender oil, change of diet (small portions)

A flash of lightning across a sky the color of blood. An echo of a woman crying-- no-- singing? Both? Or maybe there was two women...

She was afraid! But why? Everything and nothing made any sense at all. 

Isulril stood in her near-empty home, staring into the fire in the grate. The furniture had been covered in white sheets, and dusty. But there was not much of it. The home had not been used in some time, when she had arrived several months ago.

She thought about Handrynhad, who had spent part of his life in Bree-land, though much of it in Gondor. He was a minor noble, who had his hand in trade more than politics. He bred hounds, and made much gold off the selling of them.

( How Shall We Rise After Falling? Part 1)

Raindrops drummed against the windowpane in a steady rhythm. The cocoon under the blanket was so deliciously warm. She was hovering in that peaceful plane, somewhere between waking and slumbering. Where all cares are forgotten, and the senses drift lightly between what is real and what is fancied.