Hethyr

Breelands to the Lonelands.

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Story

The young Perian sat beside the river, his dark green cloak wrapped around him against the frosty chill-before-dawn. At his side was an empty wicker basket, and a fishing rod lain in a position that suggested he had had not yet attempted to catch his breakfast. Indeed, the hour was still too young for a successful attempt to catch fish. Mayhap it was simply his wish to be alone with his thoughts? He looked up as we drew nigh, then rose to his feet in rather a hurry. He may not have been able to make out our features, but he obviously ‘knew’ what we were.

The Foundling

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Screenshot: General screen

"A Foundling?" asked Ceuro in a whisper, as Hethyr moved back to her brown, tan and white mount. "She is one you raised, Lady?"

I made gesture that this was not the time nor place for a full explanation. 

"Nigh twenty-six years ago, it was. She was a babe of but months, unable to walk. The only survivor of an attack. And yes, I found her, guarded by bears."

Drawing a deeper breath, Ceuro voiced his concern. "Forgive me Lady, but she has considerable presence. She is in fact of the Race of Men?"

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