Gwennol

Pren looked back as his name was mentioned,  before he looked over to Brisen, nodding once more before surveying the large hut and the people milling around, staring at the strangers. 

Brisen looked at him boldly, her eyes roamed over his broad chest and up to his face. "Come, this way." She walked towards the door, her hips swayed under a tight fitting hide skirt.

The journey through Eregion was quiet, the land full of rolling hills and dry creek beds, clusters of holly trees giving the area the name, Hollin. Ancient elvish ruins dotted the landscape as they rode along the faint path, dust kicking up under the hooves of the big brown horse. 

As Pren and Gwennol walked through the thick forest of the Mournshaws, the birds chirped in the canopy above and the leaves rustled calmly in the wind. Many hours have passed as they walked on following paths made by derudh before, until they came to a crystal clear lake in a small little glade. Even though trees surrounded this, not a single leaf floated in these mystical looking waters.

Watching him go, she felt an unexpected pang of emotion and smiled at him her eyes shining with unshed tears for the lost kittens and for his act of kindness. She sighed, suddenly realizing they would likely have no means to care for a litter of lynx kits. She rubbed her head and looked at the fire, there would have to be some way. She rolled out one of the furs near the flames and set to work cutting up the deer carcass for cooking and drying.

Gwennol rolled up the hide tent, lashing it tight with leather straps leaning it against a tree. She slung on her bag, picking up her staff before whistling for Cysgod to begin her morning foraging. The sound of thundering hooves were heard suddenly and she turned, her long hair whipping around as she held her staff. A heavy dark chestnut horse galloped towards her, the hulking like rider glimpsed as it pounded towards her through the trees. It was nearly abreast of the young woman who tensed to dart out of its path and turned to run.

Gwennol knelt before the fire, as a thick white plume of smoke rose, fragrant with herbs thrown in among the oak logs. She watched the flames, her eyes slightly dark underneath and she murmured a repetitive chant, rolling her thumb against the antler charm around her neck. Pren had been gone for weeks on the errand that sent him north with the man who had been at times both friend and enemy. Her worry grew as the time passed, not only for her journey home but that the man she had come to look to as a protector and friend, now future husband, had not returned.

The rain slammed against the backs of the two men, the wind blowing a chill through their bones as they rode their horses through the haunted and spirit filled fields. Trees white and dead, sticking out the ground like bones as large mounds marked where the dead had been buried. The horses neighed and pranced about before a spirit flashed before their eyes, nearly knocking them off his horse.

The village on the hill was her destination, Gwennol was certain of it and yet she was confused as to why. The symbol of the boar was everywhere, on banners and carved from stone and spouting water. In the fields surrounding the town, there were signs of boars in the field. Her heavy drab robes dragged against the cobblestones and she saw the stares and gawking mouths as she passed by the merchants at their stalls. The common tongue was spoken here and she could understand more than what she could speak back. Her craban cawed and flapped his wings, setting on her shoulder.