The first snow had started to fall, and though it was beautiful to watch, it worried Fera. She doubted it posed any real threat to her companions, who were at this moment traveling south to scout safe passage to the Riddermark. Never the less, it was a sign of the fast approach of Winter. She sat on the stone steps outside the door of her home with her faithful hound, Breaga, at her side. Together, they watched as the ground, which had become hard with the cold and frost, slowly disappeared beneath a dusting of white snow. Fera reached a hand over to scratch behind Breaga's ear, her gaze distant and unfocused, lost in her own thoughts. How fared those in Rohan? Did snow fall there, too? She recalled how bitter the winter winds could feel across the wide plains of the mark, and hoped her people had prepared well. Her thoughts wandered then to her mother and siblings. Had they moved to safer ground, away from the Westfold? The threat of war had loomed heavy, even before the cold began to settle in. Wherever they were, Fera hoped that they were safe. She also wondered about those who had journeyed to the Mark during the long Summer. Their numbers had been few, but still they occupied her mind. She had yet to receive word from them, herself, but it was comfort enough to know that Irwinn had news that they were safe.
Fera sighed, looking to the pale grey sky, squinting to shield her eyes from the snowflakes that fell lazily from the heavens. They alighted upon her face, like so many freckles that dusted her nose and cheeks, melting at the warmth of her skin. She spent much of her time wondering about those who had left, missing their company, yet now she found another thought playing at the back of her mind. Was anyone missing her?
