It was late. It was dark that few noticed we two walking through their village, with our horses following closely. Those who did moved away, their eyes wide.

"We mean you no harm," Estarfin tried, having first spoken to them in quenya.

We stopped by a stone wall, and looked over the well tended fields. These folk certainly loved their land. 

"I cannot easily believe that Eru intends folk like these to suffer." I mused aloud, thinking of possible wars ahead... thinking of a contingent at Fornost in the past.

Sicarra was sad. Many might dismiss the girl as always sad, but Ryheric knew better. He had known the wayward Dunlending girl for some time now. Longer than Emmie, Eirik or Brynleigh. Sicarra was both responsive and reclusive. Ryheric did not care too much for the words that day. He only knew Sicarra was often left confused, not knowing when, where or how to act with the troubled Gondorian man who, at that time, was the object of her affection. Ryheric knew exactly what that was like. So, he took her to the top of Waterfall Mountain.

Outings and a rare few stolen weeks of peace. Though sometimes, malcontent from just a few individuals outside the clan was contagious in the towns. So some time spent afield in nature together was always rejuvenating. This night, Ryheric told several of his friends the tale of Boltin, his chestnut horse, and his demise in the White Mountains. The day Ryheric had met Brynleigh.

Having caught Brynleigh's cold, Ryheric spent several days hidden beneath a large shrub until the worst of the sickness passed.