eorlings

Steora Sweofthand ... you'm a straw headed fool an' no mistake. Iffen Bawde finds out, you'm goin' ter get it hot.

I dursen't seem ter be able ter help myself. See, this Oldgrove up at the brigand's camp, he says ter me 'Come with me m'lass and yer shall have a good dinner, a soft bed an' some warm clothes'.

And so, I did. He has a fine enough mare and so we both rides her, as quick as quick, through the dead fields and down ter the Bridge-town. Now I gets him ter promise that he'll bring me back ter Gyth and Bawde ... an' ...

Summat important must be in this fornost place. Now yer would expect that a dead city - full of bone-men, corpse-walkers and shadow-men wouldn't be full of live 'uns like me an' Gyth an' Bawde. But ...

Never trust Gyth ter pick a warrior. I said we should have gone for the leader o' them chetwood lot. He may be as ugly as chewed boot, but he looks like he could last a few years.

But no - Gyth flutters her eyes and waves her hair about, an' picks this bloody lad, face as fair as a maid an' about as effective. Goes by the jaw-cracking wealas name o' Araenion. Or Onion... feh. I dursen't know, by the time we gets to the Bridge Town, whether he's escortin' us north, or whether we'm looking after -him-.

All mornin' He has me there in the word-hoard. Questions, over an' over, as if I aint already told Him all I was rememberin'. Least i got a drink of His wine. so now I know what Gyth gets.

Gyth got a snore like a fly .. buzz, buzz, buzz. Only Gyth could make a snore sound like yer wanted to dance. I know where she'll be off come mornin', so I'm gettin' there first.

A hundred roofs and chimneys, highlighted by the rising moon ensnare my eyes as the west-gate locks behind me. The road ahead becomes strangely compelling, climbing eastwards through the town, leading my eyes to the looming Menelvagor glittering in the night sky, guarding ceaselessly over the homes of these men. The rustic air is strong here as I wander up the paved street and processions of creaking wood and sharp snaps follow my strides from the many window shutters eitherside. The Swordsman becomes my only companion along this lonely road.

The great power of the world rises steadily. Even fickle fate must bow to the inevitable lord, as a whore to the whim of her master. My little linnet brings me a map, found by one of her swains in the old north lands. How childlike these grown men and women of the horselands are, for all their fair flaxen stature, unable to read or form any letters. It is quite charming.

Three little birds. How charming.

My golden-haired Gyth, a little Linnet, a Nightingale. A sweet voice, sweet temper and as temptingly innocent as daisy.