ryheric

In the dark of night, Ryheric had gone with Tarsorel to hunt a beast. A creature the local farmers called rabid. Or, they spoke of it like a demon. On hushed tones, making superstitious gestures.

There had even been a rumour or two it was an Enemy of the free folk. A man, a foreigner with a curved blade who guised himself as a bard, responsible. Rumours of bloodlust not natural for the peace-loving Breefolk. Someone had planted the idea. Tarsorel knew it. Ry knew it. It stayed unmentioned between them.

Whiskey. Wine. Ale. Tankard after tankard. Flask. Bottle.

How much did they have to drink? It was a blur, but that was alright.

It was time to rest and revel after the long, violent, unspoken journey Ryheric had taken to Rohan.

Emmie was in on the drinking. So was Sicarra. Tarsorel was buying. It was going to be a night of mischief, mayhem and reckless shenanigans!

Forcibly neat pen strokes paint the page. His handwriting is too formal, in the exactness of the style he had been taught. He takes a long time to write the brief poem, mistakes discarded until he has every letter formed to his satisfaction. The peach, orange and pink blush of dawn sprawls upon the page as the black ink dries.
Fitting.


"Smile in the sunrise

Dance with our firelit colors

Burning like secrets"

Life, is a vicious cycle, we are born, we grow, and we die. That is not to say I've never had joy in my life. I've learned to take happiness in the little things. I've tried to make sense of my own suffering, yes. Suffering. It breeds endurance and endurance breeds understanding. Or that's what I try to tell myself. I have moments where I feel brave and then moments where I am a stupid, helpless, child again. I struggle to understand myself sometimes. I know others do too.

(Many weeks earlier)...

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He played the music for a place where a stream met a dark, clear lake.

Also known through endearment and chance as the Lake of Tears.

The stream swept, climbed, danced as it always would. Then the lake ran, rapid and smiling despite herself. Regal as a queen and joyous as a windswept banner.

The disturbance, he secretly fancied, caused light to finally reach down to the depths.

Even if only for a little while. 

Reflecting on the Injury

Fifty paces away from Cwenawynn's camp, for decency, Ryheric slid in to his bed roll by the fire. Son of Mouse grazed nearby.

They were within sound of the Brandywine river. The song of its waters echoed through forest trees in the night air.

Bree, Present Day

The white horse, Wyndafrend, galloped hard and fast towards the orange pine tree objective, as Cwenawynn yelped a laughing objection to Ry.

Wyndafrend was a fine beast, nobly held and wasting very few movements. He gained speed with smooth solidity, the petite Eorling rider and valiant steed from Rohan a mix one who had ever seen the horsemen should know to expect only the best from.

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It was a dark lullaby. Most lullabies are played for assurance, presence, soothing. This one seemed to assure only a lonely, injust anguish. Sore farewells that never took place. The despairs of being forgotten. 

Lulling the listener into a dangerous slumber to strip it all away.

"Deer in green shadows
Her home, her hearth.
They meet her in front
For to measure her worth