Wulfreda

We are being hunted, we have a price on our head. Soon every brigand, outlaw, sellsword and dunlending will be after us. How can we beat these odds? Our company is breaking, who can be trusted? It is cold, the mountain will defeat us. What if.... what if... what if... what if... what if....

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(OOC: This story is based on a RP event based on /roll outcomes)

Daellas walked around the battlefield looking for his javelins. The ground was full of dead wargs and goblins, the crows were now feasting over their rotten corpses. He saw one javelin sticking out of the ground. He remembered when he threw this one.

She could still hear the laughter in her ears. It was a joke, right; a jest seeping truth, though.

Tidhelm is struggling for some sleep at her feet, all wrapped up in furs and rope, the gagging cloth still tugged in his mouth. He seems harmless for now, perhaps she can dare a short walk around the camp. She needs to be alone for a while.

Face the truth, Melowen. You can do it. You must do it.

It is night, the air is clear and the stars shine brightly over our camp. I am sitting watch once more, I think we finally made it out of those troll-infested cursed woods. Ruins of old elvish towers can be seen on the high ridges to the south. These are the fields of the dried up rivers we passed over a month ago. 

Melowen tosses aside the parchment and quill, disappointed with herself.

Stupid, stupid girl.

She never felt the urge to tell the tale in writing, no matter how thrilling or epic was the battle she fought. And now? Feeling compelled to write poetry... no, seriously, poetry? Melowen?