Wychtleth

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the Eorling from his musings. Régnwald turned his head, his eyes gliding over the grey sky and he advanced forth, the hair was long, straw in hue and tangled as the shrugs he often found himself clambering through. Adorning him were a tattered mess of skins patched around his byrnie, stitched together with as much skill as he could manage on his own. The snow drenching everything.

The gray figure stalked out of the woods with steps resembling that of an animal, predator of the wilds; stiffening to a short breath, his eyes glowed in desperation at the same time sickness, his hands arose “Do not move, do not yell.” His voice seemed raspy as if he had lost his voice. -Mayhap of late he hasn't spoken a word to any person aside from trees and wild animals of the lands. Thus the young man took that very small moment to study the woman. "I won't hurt you." The words were spared in hard, broken accent of the rugged Eorling.

It was the shifting of the winds that brought her out of her thoughts. The one, known as a witch, looked up from where she was cooking. The shifting cold winds from the mountains smelled of death; foul and sour. Wychtleth, the daughter of a Helming and some Dunlending whore, knew something was wrong.

Living in Minas Tirith was beginning to get a little better. After finally gaining access to the third ring for getting horseshoes, she found a small green garden. It was a pleasant retreat from the overcrowded stone of the city. Also, the bath houses were beginning to become a favorite when she was not working.

Wychtleth walked into the jail. She soon pulled her hood down, looking around, "Decent looking for a jail..."