Fights

Syllea ran the brush through the elegant steed’s coat. It was one of Eogar’s; ever since his land had been attacked by orcs they had been taking care of the horses and other animals in different locations until everything was restored. She hadn’t been feeling great lately, due to her “becoming one with the moon” as her papa called it. Thanks to her grandmother, Gwawrr, it was more durable, but she still struggled with keeping her attitude in check. It seemed no medicine could help that.
 

 Syllea skips into the Prancing Pony, expecting it to be any other day. Full of mischief, laughing, and maybe some writing. Seeing Demlemoth not in his usual spot by the stairs she set herself down there.

As Syrioh layed in bed next to his wife, Ellsa, he leaned up and sat down. His right hand reached up to pat his bandaged left shoulder.

He thought about the fight, he thought about a lot of things. What he should have done, what he could have done. What he shouldn't have done. And then he began thinking about what happend around him. And a few specific things that popped into his mind stayed.