Werendor

Living in Minas Tirith was beginning to get a little better. After finally gaining access to the third ring for getting horseshoes, she found a small green garden. It was a pleasant retreat from the overcrowded stone of the city. Also, the bath houses were beginning to become a favorite when she was not working.

Régnwald grunted, his armour matching it with a groan. Leaning forward, but not so much to leave the warmth of the spot he had settled on, he stirred the pot that hung from it's tripod above a weak fire. The flame, nestled in it's firepit, sent smoke in tendrils, snaking about the cauldron.

Werendor stepped outside, soon surprised by a couple of children who seemed to have followed him. He turns to them to scold them, with the few words he can muster in Rohirric and urge them to get back inside.