Cynraede made his way to the house that he had not seen in so long. His legs shooting with pain with each step, but still pressing onwards. The house had still been maintained, but it was unclear by who. He approached the door, looking down at it with a wide smile, knowing what would be on the other side.
He opened the door, walking inside slowly as he called out. 'Duramarth? Duramarth, I'm here! its Cynraede!"
The young hunter shouted through the house as he walked, his pace slowed as he found his room. His face wrought with sadness and worry as he entered the room slowly. Cynraede looked around the room, his hand brushing across an old, worn wooden chair. Looking down at the desk as his heart sunk and his chest filled with pain.
He dropped to his knees, tears falling from his face as he picked up the ring that once belonged to Duramarth, that he had given Cynraede when he had brought him into his family. Tears began to soak his worn tunic as he held the ring in his hands tightly, the Signet of Duramarth of Gondor. His voice shook as he cried, lowering his head as he clenched the ring.
He sobbed quietly as he knelt in front of the desk, confused, saddened and worried. He stopped for a moment, tears continue to flow from his eyes as he stared at the ring, sliding it onto his finger and gripped his fist tightly. Cynraede pressed a hand to the desk, grunting as he pushed himself up onto his legs with a renewed strength. He knew, what he must do. To change, with the winds. To become a man, and to take up his birthright.
He looked down, to his worn and beaten tunic, frowning as he stood. He wiped the tears from his face and looked around for. Spotting an old trunk with a smile, knowing exactly what its contents were.
He walked over, unbuckling the old, worn clasp and letting the dusty leather slide through the clasp, opening the chest and coughing at the rather musty smell of fresh kill. He laughed as he went through his old belongings, finding several of his old cherished things.
Cynraede smiled widely as he pulled out an old, worn and beaten shorts sword. It had seen much use after Duramarth had crafted it for him before his journey to escort Fairlain to Lorien, and found his proper footing upon the path he had to walk alone.
The steel was beaten, dented and worn. The edge long gone from its blade, the leather worn and cracked around the hilt. The weight was off of it as he held it carefully in his hand. He looked at it with a wide smile, sliding it back into the worn leather scabbard, that was nearly as beaten as the sword itself.
He set it aside after laying out his old trappings, a worn leather coat and his old traveling clothes. He quickly changed, taking note of his bodies injuries as he stood bare in the room alone. Noting they seemed to be healing well, given the circumstances. He quickly tossed on the clothing, then tied his boots and slid into the leather coat. They had seemed a bit loose, probably from his lack of food, or so he thought. Taking up the sword as he headed for the door.
He pulled the coat up higher, trying to keep his neck from taking the beating from the strong rain that seemed like it was never going to let up. He knew where he went, and what must be done. He would have time to rest, once he accomplished his task. Though his body shattered and spirit broken. He knew he must carry out what Duramarth wished for him to do, he knew he would want it, where ever he was.
He gripped the sword tightly, and made his way towards the town of Bree. From there he could take a horse to Esteldin. Where one journey would end, and another would begin.
