Danhadlen

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.