rohan

Fréasburg

“The sun went down, blood-red in a smoking haze. The spears of the Riders were tipped with fire as the last shafts of light kindled the steep faces of the peaks of Thrihyrne: now they stood on the northernmost arm of the White Mountains, three jagged horns staring at the sunset.”

- The Two Towers, Chapter 7, Helm’s Deep

Pheadra |The sun was still high by the time the trio had arrived to the area they had wished to scout. Most of the area was open plain dotted with small farms and villages. Those injured in the attack were taken further south to Faldring, but the tracks clearly had led toward where they currently found themselves.

Pheadra |The afternoon sun was high, chasing away the last of the morning's chill, and seemed cheerful in contrast to the mood of the town. Leather clad boots kicked up the rain-dampened earth as Pheadra moved up toward the mead hall. Her hood shaded her pale eyes, but it didn't stop her from squinting at the form she saw ahead of her.

Barst has his arms folded across his chest as he stares out over the small settlement. His thick cloak rustles slightly in the breeze, whispering into the wind. He eyes one villager to the next, almost as if sizing one up to get into a fight with.

Barst glances over at Adri, flicking the water from his hands. "It bothering you still?" He asks, heading to grab a tankard and fill it with ale.

Adriwyn shrugs her good shoulder. 'Shot much. Made hurt. Three quivers.'