Hill, mountain,dale or wood. I've fought in each - but a true city bred man loves good stone around him. But after so long holed up in this place, even a day or two with the big lad comes welcome. He's like bad weather - smiles one moment, then as wet and dull as a mountain in shadow. Better company than most of these northern lasses though. Which says little for him.
But he offers me a chance to string up my bow and put in a bit of practice, so I says yes. He worries like an old woman - we find a little nest of goblin, and he's scampering about the hilside trying to look after the farmers. Now, I know farmers. One sniff of trouble and they've got a pony loaded and they're off. Silly soft bastard, they were long gone from the farmhouse affore we got there.
Goblins though - getting bold moving down from the hills. We gave them a fright, left the hive buzzing once dawn came up and they could see what we'd done to their sentries. Heh. Good to be back out with a decent bowman. The big lad, he aint bad, for a notherner. Pulls a bit to the left at the end of his draw, I may offer to give him some help there - but he can come over a bit proud, and I ain't putting myself out f'him. Not my land, not my fight.
Its a dull land with grim lads and sour lasses. Beer is piss too. But, m'lady bloody Olwing is still over at the big lake, an' while I'm kicking my heels with nothin' to do, its bright sunshine without her.
