Nearing Forty Winters
The Wilds of Dunland and Rohan
Wudugast stepped forward, a half desperate look etched across his features. Even in his own shock, he deftly sidestepped the fallen doe. “When you were little…” He growled, his damaged throat straining with effort toward a friendly tone. “I told you our poaching was right, and just, and we would send more to the King’s men once we had enough for our family…” His voice cracked now, and the man near enough snarled at himself for it before pushing himself on. “You were always, always hungry for stories, even when your belly was empty you’d cling to our campfire’s edge like a moth, wanting one more tale of Eorl, or of the wicked Dunlendings, or of Helm…” Pale eyes shone bright, breath misting as he croaked on. “You always dropped your hand too much, and..closed your eyes, poor deer, poor Hare…” The Hunter's shield crumbled, and rasped. “It’s me, Haneth.”
The Open Sky; The Scent of Rain; and Long, Storied Pasts
Quick Judgments, Harsh Truths
To See her Daughter Prosper as the Thane of Carwic
"Being both soft and strong is a combination very few have mastered."