Briannon

                    Laughter booms over the lake side all of sudden and Briannon looks over her shoulder as kneding dough for pies with blackberries they picked on the way. Birchald was standing in knee deep water of the lake, with pride as raising his catch, a 15 pounds heavy and large trout, for her to see it.

She never knew life could be so simple, as you devote it to bright things in life. Music, jests, songs and dance, good man and great friends. And that cup of tea, brewed in the morning, just for her while she prowls in the bed still soft and easy on her body well rested. She would see him by fire, in his red vest and blue shirt, just glancing away after he stared at her for a while. She would feel his stare, and her cheeks would burn like she was just a young lass with years of few.

                  Since she was born and leaned to walk, she always went over the edge, edge of room, yard or town. Bold and unwise just as her father, always seeking, always wishing for a breath of fresh air while riding on open road or paths. She crossed many lines, borders of decent behavior, decent life among others. While other girls were learning how to cook or sew, she was in mud and blood to her knees traveling with fathers company.

Spritely feet hopped down from the thin and ever so slightly crooked steps of a small and rather colourful wagon, they were chasing the sound of a singing kettle, and a bubbling pot. Caring hands reached down as cracking knees bent, and the whistling grew more quiet as it was taken from the small fire and laid to rest on a patch of dirt.

                 Briannon lied on the cold dusty stones of the tomb, completely lost in half-life, while listening drops of water in distance, repeatedly reminding how her mouth are dry, as if someone filled her mouth and tongue with sand. She opens her eyes but sees nothing but darkness, relived that wights have left to to die in slow pain she smiles, tightly grabbing her belongings to her chest, shivering.