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She had not fully woken to her strength yet, the lone wolf, the sleeping wolf who hunted soft pawed in the dream-lands, pale grey eyes glimmering in the dark.
Ride not easy into dark and shadowed forests,
Where ancient trees whisper and conspire,
Where roots and stones tickle a horse’s hooves,
Where streams are deep and treacherous,
And overgrown paths lead too far from home.
Ride not foolishly into golden northern realms,
Where wicked elves weave their magic spells,
Where the shade of trees hide their gilded arrows,
Where heavy leaves glitter in the dark of night,
And elven waybread tastes naught of home.
Note: This is my own rendition of J.R.R Tolkien's poem Lament of the Rohirrim / The Horse and the Rider (which in turn is based on The Wanderer), and should be read for what it is: a fun interpretation from a creative point of view.
Seregrían and the Riders Four have passed out of the moors of the Wold and entered the region of Rohan known as the Eastfold, a vast plain of rolling hills dotted by settlements and farms known as crofts. The lands are sparsely settled, with the folk of Rohan living in a few towns protected by wooden palisade walls. The land divides into the Norcrofts and the town of
When winter spread to the Bree-lands once more, the window which Diane stared out was shuttered closed. She was hidden from the world, and the world hidden from her. The only warmth came from weak candlelight, or a hearth too far from the bed.
Diane was put on strict bed-rest after her collapse. The doctor could not find a source of her illness, save but deeming it an infection of her lungs. She was not to overexert herself as the doctor did his best to find treatment.
When summertime fell on the small hamlet of Archet, so did a worsening of Diane's health. Though she did her best to hide it from her husband and her daughter, Odelynne noticed.