Cerrynt

The reason that Cerrynt had been dreading the moment of arrival in the city of the empty-lands, or Bree as they called it, turned out not to be what she'd expected.

The small scout checked the horses and the tiny fire, now barely more than embers, that she was sharing with Cerrynt. All seemed in order, and they'd seen very little to trouble her in wildlife of late, either. Even the birds had seemed more curious than alarmed for the last several days. With such peace, and the time alone, she decided to start writing in her journal again. The discipline will keep me from dwelling too much on the wrong things, I reckon.

Since the day she'd left her clan, her nose still swollen and her body bruised, Cerrynt had had no path before her. All she had was a vague idea that a particular way might, might, lead to something. The marking of the year end could give the spirits a chance to guide her, to finding her strength and cunning, and saving her clan. But it did not.

The pledge-raid had been, as Cerrynt heard it, equal parts force and stealth. They had avoided notice, and bloodshed, as much as possible, but had also terrorized a farm-family and killed their guard dog. Cerrynt had been meant to be part of it, though she had never learned what her part would be; at that time, she'd hardly ever seen a horse, had never been near one. Had never seen a forgoil, either. But due to a misunderstanding about days and times, she hadn't been there.

When the stars were first coming out and the bonfire at the overlook was just being built, the wind had been keen, a hungry voice in the rocks like the world itself longing for something it could never have. The air was calm now, but for Cerrynt it felt no less turbulent, for while the air might be at rest, her feet, light as clouds, flung her through it as keenly as if the wind still raced heedlessly towards the horizon.

Each day was like the one before. Strangely comfortable, as if she had lived amongst the Eryr-lûth all her life. Every night was like the one before. Uncomfortably strange, because every night she remembered that this was not her home, her tribe, would never be; that she was lost.

There were fires burning in the distance, somewhere in the east. From the guard-post outside the stockade of Tros Hynt, Cerrynt couldn't tell how large, or how far, they were. That one might be a small campfire from some hunter of the Eryr-lûth nearby roasting a grouse, or it might be the burning ruins of some huge forgoil farm from which brave cymry were currently stealing horses. She had no way to know. She could only stare into the distance until her eyes swam and all points seemed as near as all others, fretting about the raid she was supposed to be part of, but was missing.