Cutch’s baited hook plopped into the slowly moving stream. Droplets lifted up from the suddenly forming ripples and danced in the mid-morning sunlight. He watched the worm drift towards the stream bed, and with a deft flick of the rod made it enticingly dance. 

You must go, Little Man. You can’t hide your shame here. 

She knew nothing of suffering. She was excessively rich, for a woman of Bree. She dressed too lavishly. She relied too much on her moods and was bad at hiding them. She should live on the streets with the working women, selling herself for coin.

All of these thoughts came to her in the days following the events of the previous days. They were not originally her own thoughts, but rather, things that had been said to and of her over the past week, and even before that. Flashes of what had happened over those days came to her, and she clenched the fist of her uninjured hand.

On the next fine, balmy morning of late-spring, when the air over the fields is damp and heavy with the promise of looming summer, a wiry scrap of a messenger-boy comes trotting out of the southerly gates of Snowbourn. He hastens through the dew-soaked grass of the outlying crofts, aiming towards Saexwyrd's cottage.

Eira had been shocked when Demlemoth told her of a shocking intel: her father, Aglarzor, had a son.