ryheric

Winter, Herne. After all that had happened with Ryheric's chestnut colt Boltin in Rohan, and hearing Tarsorel speak about the ill fate of Grace, it occurred to Ryheric that while Boltin received a proper send-off from Brynleigh of Rohan, none of the other horses lost from his company in the last two years had received proper acknowledgment. Going with his gut, he detoured the group off the road and led them to the river. Small floating shrines were made and set adrift.

Sicarra was sad. Many might dismiss the girl as always sad, but Ryheric knew better. He had known the wayward Dunlending girl for some time now. Longer than Emmie, Eirik or Brynleigh. Sicarra was both responsive and reclusive. Ryheric did not care too much for the words that day. He only knew Sicarra was often left confused, not knowing when, where or how to act with the troubled Gondorian man who, at that time, was the object of her affection. Ryheric knew exactly what that was like. So, he took her to the top of Waterfall Mountain.

Having caught Brynleigh's cold, Ryheric spent several days hidden beneath a large shrub until the worst of the sickness passed.

They walked for miles. Fought and bled together, and spilled the blood of their foes onto the earth. Afterwards, they sat by the water. Some words given and taken. Pain shared, giving way to hope in the fresh air.

Sicarra had been brought to Herne, and Ryheric had been entrusted to hear out her tale, in full. He had known the girl for quite some months, and yet he had never realised the depth or extent of what she had suffered until that day. How long she had spent in private, silent agony. Fearing every day, for love and absence of her taken daughter, Salin. How alone she had felt as a foreign girl in Bree. Not only foreign, but deaf, and with a supportive friend who had betrayed her in the worst way. No wonder the girl was so desperately open.

Dandelynn was sad. Ryheric had never known her to be melancholy before, or lonely like that. It called for some wild, drunken revelry fit for lifting a barmaid's spirits. Dandy partook of course, plenty of booze drunk. The dining table broken. Eirik later crashing into the pantry from a "sleigh" ride down the stairs. There was music, raucous laughter, plenty of food and drink ... and an absolutely trashed house strewn with hungover bodies by the end of it. Just as it should be. The most important part was that Dandy's cheer was returned to her in the end.

Changes were like seasons. Swift and uncertain. And certain, as well. He sought the brightness of her colour; and sometimes, from behind torrid dark clouds, with a peeking smile framed in gold-silver hair, he would find her there beneath all that had buried her in colours of dark grey. His Mercan. 

Ryheric took the scholar and the Rohirric healer up to Waterfall Mountain. A quiet journey, this time. So often, Ryheric's attention was demanded in large groups. He treasured his time with people; among them. But beneath it all, the Dark Bard himself was an imposter. An introvert wearing the garb of extroverted leader at need. He made sure to bring Winnie and Bryn with him, without anyone else. For he missed them both. He took a great deal of solace in the silent company of Winnie and Bryn as they simply sat, into the evening with him.

Approximately one year ago. The figure stepped through the rain and Ryheric stepped forward to meet whoever it was. The chances of friendly faces was slim and he was ready to attack. But it only took moments for him to recognise the silhouette and regal movements of her. His initial hostile rush forward became something else. Eagerness. Gladness. They stopped and held a regard of each other for one moment. Then there were introductions, revelry, borrowed mead in the storehouse, mischief and merry-making.