Ethel

Hearrd, the assistant smith, entered the forge to find Ethel already at work on removing a dent from a helmet nose piece. Her expression was one of intense concentration, her eyes were narrowed and focused, her hand raising and lowering her hammer to an already practiced rhythm. She was doing very well.

Ethel came to me earlier today when I had sat down by the fire for a few moments. She was carrying with her a leather bound book that contained many pages. 

I brush away the heavy lock of hair that has fallen across the sleeping boy’s face. He blows against my touch, but does not wake. Thick, straw blonde hair it is, so typical of many of our folk. His eyes are greenish, and his nose seems overly large. He is young, no more than a year or so older than Ethel, I suspect. But then often girls take on the appearance of women at a younger age than boys take on the look of men?

Heartha had already scouted out the area agreed upon, when the others arrived. She had found very few signs of boar, even there. The hilly woodlands to the east of Bancross were usually teeming with wild boar. Why was there such a shortage this year? The hunting party may yet have to rely on the results of fishing, or possibly a moose or two, to fill the mouths of their folk, she mused.