Dale

Her mother stood in the doorway of her room. She was a beautiful woman. Her skin was honey-colored. Her hair, once dark brown but now greying, was braided around her head, like a crown. Her dress was simple, but its heavy fabric was deep dark green. Her amber eyes were fierce as always. "I wish to speak to you."  

Glaenis was startled by her words. "Yes, mother." She said, with a slight frown. It was unusual, this kind of invasion, and it never meant something pleasant.

“I ‘eard…” Taraborn slurred, “yous don’ like mah singin’” He tried to point at the two men, no, one man, before him accusingly as his head swam.

“This is where we part. Thank you for the assistance, I am glad you weren’t needed to use your sword.” Edward said with a warm smile, reaching out to shake his hand. Taraborn grasped it, and found himself tugged in close, “Tell anyone what we do and I’ll have my sons fill you with arrows. Got it?”

Staring out over the world, Taraborn admired the view. A great, solitary mountain loomed in the distance, it’s tall jagged peak piercing the sky. Beneath the mountain was the great city of Dale, and further to the south lay the Long Lake and he could just about make out Lake Town.

They were nearly there, maybe another week till Taraborn could rid himself of the tomb-robbers that had employed him.

Time. Such a curious thing. The order of one thing happening after another. Why was it suddenly so confused for her? Sickness seemed to play such curious games with her. She liked games. I wonder how I can win this one? The man had said that she would get better. He had given her smiles and comfort. His tenderness a stark contrast to the horrors she had been through. But who was he? She could barely remember. He became so confused with the other people that ran around her tormented head.

The fresh breeze of a pale dawn rippled through the streets of Dale Town, rustling the leaves and mixing with the pale sounds of late night drunkards and early morning risers. One of the latter of these was a teenage girl crowned by a ginger mop of thick hair and carrying an oversized basket of apples. Faintly, the sounds of singing could be heard to come from her, the words travelling on the wind:

Oh blessed morning harken to me,

Where dawn and birds sing and be free,