She scowled, scribbling out yet another sentence in a small book in front of her. How on Middle Earth did Fiontann do it. A slightly grubby page of the diary open for a moment before she shoves it aside, completely fed up, is full of crossed out sentences and scribbles. The man always looked so damn calm writing it, how does he not feel stupid. She sends another vicious scowl at the diary, sitting back in the chair and reaching for the mug of ale in front of her as she eyes the other customers in the small tavern. There are many people in the place and they huddle near the fireplaces that faintly light the place, speaking loudly. The poor lighting covers the poor condition of the place and, after a few tankards, made the patrons feel more comfortable and encourage the volume. The loud voices irritate her and she places the tankard back on the table forcefully. She growls at the barmaid that comes close enough to take her tankard, seeing her too close to the diary. The lass scuttles away without the tankard and the other people avoid her, wary of the angry redheaded woman. Rothrian grins slightly to herself, both amused at her own reaction and satisfied the diary is safe from prying eyes. After a moment she pushes it into her bag and once there she forgets it, tapping her fingers on the table in thought.
If shes honest, she thinks, she's not really angry or fed up. She's worried.... seriously so. Its been 5 months since shes been anywhere near the site of that battle. She still remembered it clearly...
It had started out well, they had located the two leaders of the groups of orcs and planned out a strategy since there were too few Wanderers to take out the entirety. But with the final leader, the flow of battle changed and it became messy. A battle of pure survival. Less tactics or clever tricks, just trying to stay alive and try to kill the leader. Many of the Wanderers were badly injured or missing, herself included in the former with one of the most serious involving a long deep cut upon her right arm that made holding a sword almost unbearable. When the final leader fell, the orcs regrouped and continued their assault against the weakened warriors. With no options left, the wanderers fled and were further divided in number. Having lost them eventually, Fiontann and Rothrian had bandaged their wounds and split up to search for their scattered Order.
Her brow furrows in concern. Fiontann.... Where was he now? Was he alright? Were the others alive? She'd not heard from him again after that day. Nor any of the Order. Its been 5 months. Her hands clench and she takes in a swift breath at the swell of fear. After splitting up, she'd searched for 3 days, the fourth had been a blur till she had awoken in a village to find out her wound had soured and she had passed out from a very high fever. A group of traveling merchants had found her and taken her in to receive care in a nearby village. They'd had to dislocate her shoulder again to reset it as well as clean out her wound. The news of not being able to use her blade with her right hand or fight for at least a month had been a shock. Her Wanderer ring was also missing.
She had not taken the news well, she grimaces now remembering the moment and absently nodding at the barmaid as she gives her a fresh tankard. She'd been angry and frustrated at first, feeling vulnerable and at being separated from the Order, unable to be able to search for them or know if they are alive. It was only several days later, once she'd been reunited with Etain that she was able to think clearly.
With a week of no word of them dead or alive, she'd come to the conclusion that they must be in hiding, recovering as she was. Being unable to hold a sword or fight meant she had been useless to them, even if she could have found them. She would have most likely died if she'd ventured out unable to defend herself, however much she'd wanted to get out there. She had to recover and keep a low profile until she could return. Staying low had seemed the best plan. If they were being tracked or watched she shouldn't pull attention to any of them by sending letters.
It hurt to not continue the search as she'd joined on to the merchant band, offering her blacksmith and tailor skills to make sure she wasn't a burden. She'd paid the healer in the village with most of what she had left in coin, seeing the village had sorely needed it. She was only able to do small things at first for the merchants, needlework and repairing clothes. After a night of dinner when she had been asked to cook and many had ended up disappearing for the evening, they'd kept her suspiciously away from anything involving food, claiming her food was too much for mortal stomachs to bear. She half smiles at the memory. It had been frustrating at first but she'd kept with it, owing them a lot for their help. But eventually as she'd healed they had allowed her to help with blacksmithing in the towns they stayed and then do her own work to sell. She'd thrown herself into the work and attempted to train with her right hand blade, only to drop it from pain each time. She left messages in the towns that the caravan passed through. Enough to let them know she was alive, should they be searching and her next destination.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months....
and still no word.
By the third month she could lift the blade without dropping it, though it still pained her, and began to train once more. She'd lost weight and muscle over her time of recovery and rarely smiled, only worked in silence and answering people in few words as possible. By the fifth, she was ready to return and had more than paid back what she owed the caravan. She'd said her goodbyes and thanked them, heading the long journey back. I
And so she was sat here in the Forsaken Inn, back again. This time to find them no matter what.
