Leighton Goatleaf tidied up his tools on his workstation and then wiped the table clean with a wet cloth. He leaned the saw against the wall and cleaned the blade thoroughly so as to prevent the formation of any rust on it until the next day and put on his coat.

The air was cold, and as he sat, huddled up in the rock crevice overlooking the camp, he felt the chill through his body. His toes had become numb, and he did his best not to move as not to let the wind between his cloak and himself. 

Day had given way to night several hours ago, and in the pitch black his eyes had almost started to adjust. The tiredness had started to kick in, and he began to dream of his warm fire and wine rack back in the Homesteads. 

"If only I hadn't given the damned key away" he grumbled to himself, quietly. 

“HEY!!” Lif cried out, immediately rousing Finchly, Nethrida and Catalinna from their unnatural sleep. As the trio looked around in confusion the elf stared up at Cat, still in her perch. “Looks like your pals have run out on us Red…or worse!”

Torrance and Millaray watched Cutch, Caladna, and Claywick ride away westward on the East Road. Adso’s ca

Redbeard came by my quarters before he left and handed me another manuscript. It was a little worn and tattered, a few stains; blood or wine, or both. I have managed to transcribe everything that was there.

She was leaving.

Standing by the fire, the pale woman was clad only in her chemise, her feet bare, long black locks falling to her waist. She looked into the embers, and thought of the previous evening, standing by the fire in the common room of the Prancing Pony.

It had been quite the night at the Huntsman and the Stag. Nimraph and Eira had confessed their feelings to each other, only after a cruel joke from Lycaon forced her bitterly silent anger. Lycaon had announced that a drinking game was to be held. On top of this, Eira became reacquainted with another like herself and Nimraph, Goldgel of Harad.

As the three had gathered around the table for the drinking game, a familiar dark presence walked into the inn. Kallan, the bandaged travel, had entered the Huntsman and the Stag. Then...

Then it all happened so fast.

"I would much rather be with you…" he said, holding his breath. He stood behind her, near the entrance of the kitchen. Laboring over the soup pot, Eira froze. She stopped mid stir, completely frozen in the moment. So many questions, doubts, memories, and more lightning struck at her memory in a barrage. She finally straightened up, leaving the heat of the fireplace. She still looked at the pot. A small flint of joy sparked inside, yet…

Everyone has their own solutions to problems.  Their own perceptions of each individual.  Lately, I have been worrying about how my son perceives me. Will he remember me as the madwoman that gave up everything to live as a commoner in some far-flung end of Eriador? Or will he remember me as a Mother that tried her best even when everything in her was screaming to give up?