Name Haeneth
Nearing Forty Winters
The Wilds of Dunland and Rohan
Outward Appearance

The huntress does not seem at first glance the kind to witness great deeds. She is slight, bred from the peasant stock of the thick snow-desert of Wildermore. Her hair, cropped short and pale as sanded ash, can’t ever seem to keep the right shape. Back straight from bow-work, muscles layered and pounded thick under leather and maille, she seems more fit for work in the battle-yard than as a guest at a fine lord’s table. Her muddied hand often rests on the rag-wrapped pommel of a sword.


Yet a keen eye might, between the scraps of linen and leather, catch a glint of a garnet hilt. The exposed blade might show the effort of a thousand steel layers, twisted and pounded, web-thin and writhing down the cutting edge.


Years of harsh winters, long hours bent over a loom in low light or straining to see a road through storms, have chiselled grey grooves around her eyes. Yet her crow’s feet echo the hours’ of laughter at her lover's jests or at the stories her children would sing.


Her body is as scarred with scrapes with death as her face is with freckles, but in her eyes she shows the most age. Green as frosty sage, they are strong, able to wrestle the tempests that roar through her, stay a steady hand on the helm. They are the eyes of a woman that has borne six children, and buried three.


Beneath the etchings of hard years, her face cannot shed its innocence. It is often kind with hope, even when there is no one around to share it.


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."

Haeneth's Adventures

First Reflections of Squire Ifllwine 1 week 5 days ago
A Supper Shared Under Eaves 2 months 4 weeks ago
The Road So Far 4 months 2 weeks ago
Let Me Show You How 4 months 2 weeks ago
Trouble 7 months 3 weeks ago
Haeneth's Adventures

Haeneth's Gallery

Haeneth's Gallery