Fight

The warlord didn't stay snarled in the debris for long, he was back on his feet. The boat churned and threw the fighters this way and that as the storm raged. Blood, seawater and rain were under Ryheric's boots and slippery at the grip of his sword, but he didn't falter now. Perhaps he couldn't. Retreat and fear were ripped away from him, just like anything he'd ever tried to keep. Everything was red and black, now. Wrath, hunger for blood and willful abandonment of control.

The pale green eyes set in his head glance up towards the stars. It’s so cold, he thinks. There’s a warmth, like warm water being poured over his shoulder, forehead and chest. Some of this warmth trickles out of his mouth from the corner of his lip. Slumped against the house of an acquaintance he had promised to watch over, his legs lay sprawled out and his mind uncertain how long exactly it took to crawl from where he fell to where he now is.

"Probably ought to have made a different choice in clothing," was the thought going through Reidun's mind as she stepped in to the common room of the Prancing Pony Inn.
It was not that she had never been in a place such as this before and was unaccustomed to the smell of vomit and sweat permeating every thing in the room. (Oh, the very air did seem to be full of the stench.) No, she was very accustomed to it and hardly noticed.

After standing there for a second or two more, she simply walked past the two without a word. She had not the wherewithal to address the situation yet.
She quietly asked Barliman for a bucket in which to put the glass shards from her shattered wineglass.

Domruth stands in the middle of the circle that is in the middle of the water that is more than knee deep. Around her are the ruins and from all over one can hear chanting in a strange language. Domruth holds two curved swords and her raven black hair flow to her right but... There is no wind.

It was a cold summer day after the previous evening's rain, Fiontann had just finished swimming in the lake as every morning after practisiing with the sword. Slowly he made ready and then walked to The Thirsty Boar. As always he had his greatsword on his back and he put on the garment that he had during the first leg of the trip to Rohan, something comfortable for the inn but also protective if need be.

Just a couple of inches.

That is all it was, the gap between Narys and Taraborn, but for all it mattered it could have been the Belegaer. He lay there, awake deep in the night, looking at her sleeping form with blurry eyes as he tries to make sense of the storm of emotions within himself.

The red sun shone behind his figure. He was dirty, he was panting, and blood was dripping down over his eye. The scimitar and the shield were left to the dirt, for he was far too dizzy to carry any weight aside from his own. But he was alive, and it was the best circumstance he could find himself in.