Company of the East Road

The golden light of early morning filtered softly through the latticed shutters of Deorla’s hidden house. The air held a rare stillness — not the kind that comes before a storm, but the quiet pause before history begins to turn again. Outside, birds stirred in the brush, and smoke curled gently from the stone chimney. Inside, Deorla stood before a shape half-concealed beneath the floorboards — a white chest, pale and cold like ice, as if winter itself had been shaped into wood and steel.

Written as part of the unfolding plot of Northern Charter

The sun was beginning to set behind the white peaks of the Starkhorn as Deorla stepped into the small fenced paddock behind her secluded home. Firebryn stood there already, brushing down one of the four horses that had belonged to Deorla—now well-groomed, well-fed, and visibly pleased to have their mistress home again.

“You kept them in fine shape,” Deorla murmured, trailing her hand over the flank of a dark bay mare.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.

On the shores of Nen Harn the party stirs from their nightly slumber. It was a peaceful morning, after a peaceful night. And as the first light touches the dewy grass, the party readies for breakfast. Turtle soup made by the hobbit lass, Caramip.

It was on a dusky spring evening, just as the first stars began to blink into the twilight sky above the kin-house, that the Company of the East Road gathered once more. The trees around the hall rustled with a gentle wind, and lanterns flickered in warm tones of gold and amber. Word had gone out from Mervedis—not in haste, but with firm intent. It was time, she said, to speak of what was, and what could be again.