alweard

Alweard sat in the shade of a tree, hidden behind a curtain of willow-fronds. The rush of the nearby stream swallowed up the scratching of his quill as an image took shape: first the contours of cheek and jaw, then the curve of a skull, the bristled edge of a beard. He drew fine lines with a gentle touch, just as familiar to his eye as the lines of his own palm.

He had barely slipped over the wall when he saw her. In the long shadows of evening, it was easy to hide; the guards were changing shifts and the bleary-eyed afternoon watch stood no chance of finding his silhouette in the shade. Yet her eyes cut through the gloaming to meet his, the set of her mouth drawn tight and thin. 

It was The Oathsworn's first day in Cliving, they'd been appointed a space in which they might stay. Which in truth, put many in the company at edge. Seeing as the high ground rested above them. Yet they figured it was nothing more than their own paranoia. All of the company had seen blood-shed, and knew well what the low ground entailed.

Orduins opponent crawled from the ground, rising to face the man once again. That scraggly, bandit looking chest-nut haired fellow so keen to harm a man he knew not. With anger and frustration of his previous failure did he swing once more at Orduins stomach. It landed its mark, and cut open Orduins midriff. Blood surely but slowly leaking from his flesh.

Long and lonesome can the road to Edoras be, but I do enjoy my own company and rarely have the need to be among many. 

The first cold rays of the morning sun shone down into the gorge as Alweard opened his eyes.