#thrymma

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

It’s Wednesday, which means another installment of Wídfara and Guthláf!

Thank you sincerely to the small but lovable group who read these! You’re my heroes!

This week we jump forward about 10 months, where Wíd and Guthláf are thriving as a happy (secret) couple. But when Guthláf gets a chance to fulfill his banner bearer dreams at last, Wíd does not handle it well at all.

Parts 1 , 2 and 3 in case you need a refresh.

Wídfara woke early, as he always did in Guthláf’s room. Sleeping on a stuffed mattress with soft pillows still didn’t feel as natural to him as the thin bedrolls on the ground that he had grown up with out on the plains, and he never used the bed in his own room when he slept alone. But the strange feel of the mattress was only half the challenge to finding rest in Guthláf’s room; the other half was Guthláf himself, who had a tendency to sleep splayed out with limbs in every direction. When Wídfara was a boy, a member of a traveling party that passed through his family’s lands had shown him a drawing of a brightly colored, star-shaped fish that could be found in the waters off Gondor’s coast, and Wídfara thought of that special sea star whenever he looked at Guthláf asleep.

He rolled quietly out of bed now and began to dress himself, taking care not to disturb Guthláf in the process. They were only two days back from a harrowing and exhausting campaign in the West-mark, their éored sent in relief to help manage an unexpected and tenacious conflict that sprang up near the western border with several companies of Dunlendings. They had been lucky to avoid deaths, but there were several serious injuries and Thrymma, their banner bearer, was critically wounded. As so often happened to those with the flag in their hand, he had been a visible and attractive target to enemy archers. Now he clung tenuously to life, the wounds he suffered having become infected or perhaps poisoned by the arrows themselves, and it would soon be Wídfara’s turn to sit watch in his sick room, relieving the man who had spent the last six hours there.

He sat back down to pull on his boots and looked at Guthláf as he did. A tangle of blonde waves fell over Guthláf’s eyes, and his lips were parted ever so slightly, allowing the quiet rhythm of his slow, even breathing to be heard. The fingers of his left hand were curled into his palm, squeezing lightly every so often in keeping with the events of whatever dream was entertaining his resting mind, and Slaga was pressed into the small space between his arm and torso, his furry chin resting on Guthláf’s ribs just below the swath of burn scars that had cut across his chest and stomach since he was just fifteen.

For the thousandth time in the last ten months, Wídfara said a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for having brought them together. However they had ended up here, it had been the singular blessing of Wídfara’s life so far. He had never imagined it would be possible to find one person who represented so much of what he respected and admired in others – kindness, integrity, bravery, dedication – and did it all in such a joyful, easy way. He had only to hear Guthláf’s booming laugh from across a crowded room and his spirit would feel lighter. He needed only to have those pale blue eyes land on him to feel special and wanted. Guthláf even accomplished what Wídfara had once thought to be impossible: to make him feel at home in Edoras, with friends and support and pleasure all around him. They never really talked directly about their own relationship, uncertain even of what to call it in a culture where there was no word for intimacy between men. But Wídfara knew his own heart, and his heart loved Guthláf.

He slowly opened the door a few inches and peered out into the hallway. When he saw that it was empty, he slipped from the room and made his way out of the barracks. No one else knew the true nature of Wídfara and Guthláf’s connection, and they took pains to keep it that way, fearful of how the other men would react. The concealment hadn’t started out difficult for Wídfara; he was well used to the imperative for discretion, and it was in his own nature to keep private those things he most valued and cherished. But as the months drew on and his feelings for Guthláf only became more intense, he found himself often regretting the small gestures and moments that they were forced to sacrifice at the altar of secrecy. A clasped hand while on a walk through the city. An arm draped over a shoulder when they sat side-by-side. A sweet endearment on one of the many occasions when Guthláf’s famous generosity was on display.

At times like those, Wídfara ached to claim Guthláf publicly, and he knew Guthláf felt the same. But without an example to look to, any other pair of men who dared to live openly as they wanted to, the risk of exposure felt far too high.

The morning air on Wídfara’s face was heavy and damp, and an unexpected chill tinged the dampness thanks to a wind coming down from the mountains. It was a miserable day to be out and about, and his intuition told him it wouldn’t get any better. He crossed quickly to the building where the healers worked, ready to start his shift at the vigil for Thrymma and honor the commitment of the Eorlingas. No one suffered alone. Just before he ducked inside, he dropped a few arrowheads on the small plate by the door, his offering for the concern and protection of Béma on behalf of his friend. They clinked lightly against the bridle bit and spearhead that had already been deposited there by others.

Keeping watch over the critically injured was a difficult task in any situation – Wídfara had seen men cry for their mothers, hallucinate frightening visions and endure shocking bodily indignities as a result of serious wounds over the years – but this watch was particularly troubling to his mind. He had always liked Thrymma, a thin slip of a man who was nevertheless shockingly strong and unquestionably tenacious, and Wídfara prayed those traits would save his friend now. But if he was being honest with himself, he knew there was another reason why he was so keen to see Thrymma recover, a reason that shamed him and yet was undeniably true: as long as Thrymma lived, the éored had its banner bearer and Guthláf, no matter how desperately he wanted it, would be kept from the role. Kept from the appalling dangers of being simultaneously the most exposed and the most targeted man on any field of battle. Kept from the risks that Wídfara had simply grown unwilling to see Guthláf incur.

Herubrand stood leaning against the wall outside of Thrymma’s room, his face drawn and somber, when Wídfara arrived. “It won’t be long,” he said quietly. “He had an awful night, and they brought Idafrith to say her last goodbyes. She’s in there now.”

Wídfara’s heart sank. His hopes for Thrymma had been tenuous at best, but he had hung everything on them all the same. He blinked back a tear or two, thanked Herubrand for having covered the small hours of the night and took up the other man’s place just outside the door, preparing to await the inevitable and trying his best to think of Thrymma in happier moments.

His efforts were rendered futile by the groans and cries that occasionally made their way from the room, sounds of grueling pain that swelled his heart with pity. No death could be deemed good but some were easy, and Thrymma’s clearly was not. Alongside the agony of the banner bearer, the sobs of his wife were also clearly audible, and at times Wídfara had to fight back the urge to cover his ears, to shield himself from the emotional hemorrhage spilling out just feet away from him.

At last, after about an hour, Idafrith’s weeping turned suddenly into a long, piercing wail that sent Wídfara’s blood running cold even as he felt grateful that Thrymma’s pain was ended for good. He tolled the bell at the end of the hall to summon those who cared for the dead, and then he went into Thrymma’s room to finish caring for the living. Idafrith cried in his arms until her mother arrived and he was excused to return to regular duties. But the dark, wet stain of her tears lingered on his chest for long minutes after leaving and the sound of her cries in his ears for longer still.

That night, pinned beneath an arm and a leg that had found their way atop him as they slept, Wídfara had his first nightmare about Guthláf’s death.

Amidst his genuine grief and sorrow for Thrymma, Wídfara spent the next few days feeling irrationally irritated. His mood was dark and his thoughts uncharitable, though he tried his best to keep them to himself, aware that he had no fair basis to be unpleasant to anyone else. But everywhere he turned, he found himself running into frustrations and resentments.

Without asking him first, Guthláf had paid Wídfara’s contribution to the collection in support of Thrymma’s widow, knowing that Wídfara couldn’t afford both his share and the weekly payments he sent home to help his parents. Guthláf had meant well but the gesture left Wídfara feeling small, and when they argued about it, Guthláf’s admonition – “your parents can’t eat your pride, Wíd” – had stung more than he realized.

Even worse, at an impromptu gathering of riders to drink to Thrymma’s memory, Guthláf cried, and Wídfara had to watch as Hildred comforted him. They had a clear understanding between them that they would not offer each other even the most benign physical affection in public, afraid that others would see something as normal as a consoling embrace at a memorial and somehow intuit from it all the other embraces of a very different kind that they shared in private. But as Wídfara saw Hildred put an arm around Guthláf’s shoulders, he felt overwhelmed by a painful stab of jealousy, not because he thought Hildred had any competing interest but because Hildred had the freedom to give the consolation that Wídfara himself yearned to provide. He had the luxury to offer a simple kindness without a second thought as to whether it would also lay bare his most deeply held secrets. The unfairness of it burned in Wídfara’s chest.

The funeral itself took place the next morning at the barrows beyond the city gates, and Wídfara steeled himself for another difficult day. Thyrmma’s closest friends and kinsmen carried the bier with his body past a crowd consisting of members of the éored, Freogan and the other novices, and friends and family members of both Thrymma and his wife. The dead man’s sword and banner were laid neatly across his chest, and many hands reached out to briefly clasp his wrists or ankles as he was carried by.

After singing, short speeches and a ritual toast, the éored stood for the customary honoring of the widow of the fallen. Déorwine brought Idafrith forward and intoned the traditional lines, pausing after each sentence so that all members could repeat his words and recognize the particular suffering that she had incurred on behalf of lord and land.

“Idafrith, we thank you for sharing Thrymma with us…We are humbled by the sacrifice that you’ve made…We pledge to you that it was not made in vain…In his life and in his death, he made Rohan a stronger and prouder kingdom.”

Wídfara repeated the words, as he had at other funerals over the years, but for the first time he struggled to find the meaning in them. He stared at Idafrith, her eyes red but spine straight and an unreadable look on her face, and he wondered what she really made of this rite. Did it provide her any true relief to be told that her husband’s death had some purpose? Would she not rather have seen that purpose unfulfilled if it meant that she could keep Thrymma for a little longer?

He took his place in line to offer the widow an individual expression of gratitude and condolences. When he reached the front of the line and spoke his words, she gave him the same response that he heard her give to every other man ahead of him: “He died as he lived, with strength and honor, and I am proud of him in death just as I was in life.”

As they walked slowly back to the barracks after the burial, Wídfara turned her response over and over in his mind. Something in her emotionless tone and her rote, repetitive delivery worked against the substance of what she had said, and he couldn’t help but feel that she didn’t really mean any of it. But when he expressed as much to Guthláf, he got a shocked, indignant reply.

“You suggest that she’s not proud of her husband?”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant only that such pride will be hollow comfort in her long, lonely days ahead, and she might trade all that pride in an instant for more time together.”

“No one questions how painful this is for her. But she can see beyond herself to the greater good that he was helping to secure. He believed some things are worth fighting and dying for, and I’m certain she does, too.” Guthláf stopped and turned toward Wídfara, studying his face closely. “Do you not think so?”

“I don’t know what I think.”

“Well, then, I’ll tell you this. If something should ever happen to me in battle, you need never question how I felt about it. I’ll go to the halls of my fathers with gratitude in my heart. This éored has given me everything I have. A family when that fire took my own. A sense of purpose and meaning for my life.” He glanced around quickly to be sure no one else was watching and then briefly grasped Wídfara’s forearm. “It gave me you. I would accept death on behalf of this éored without hesitation. I would be proud to do it, and I would want you to be proud of me, too.”

Wídfara nodded, eager to end any discussion of potential harm to Guthláf as quickly as possible. They went the rest of the way in silence and each spent the remainder of the day in his own quiet activity, Guthláf taking Slaga for a long walk in the hills and Wídfara tutoring Freogan on the different formations and maneuvers he would need to learn to become a successful rider candidate. The hours of distraction served Wídfara well, and by the time they came together again at the end of the evening, he had nearly succeeded in calming the anxious feeling that had roiled his stomach all day. But when he closed his eyes that night and released his thoughts to the keeping of his subconscious, it tortured him again with images of Guthláf, bloodied and battered, with the king’s banner pooled on the ground beside his lifeless hand.

Four days later, Wídfara’s nightmares started to creep into his waking existence.

Elfhelm asked to speak with Guthláf privately after training that day, and when Guthláf emerged from the marshal’s quarters he was fairly radiating with joy, officially promoted to banner bearer of the king’s éored. To have achieved, at age twenty seven, the one goal that had shaped and directed the entirety of his life was almost more than he could process. He spent a few minutes alone at Thrymma’s grave, sitting amidst the blooming simbelmynë and speaking in a low voice that no one else could hear, and then he threw himself fully into celebration with the entire éored cheering him along.

Wídfara had offered his own smiling congratulations, caught up momentarily in Guthláf’s genuine elation, and he followed along to the tavern where Guthláf was spending himself broke on drinks for every person in sight. But the longer Wídfara sat, the more discomfort he felt and a deep, cold fear crept through his veins. His mind tracked back over all the past banner bearers he had known or heard of, tabulating how few had ever endured long enough to reach peaceful old age. How many lived with horrific and permanent injuries. How many no longer lived, struck down either quickly and mercifully on the battlefield or slowly and painfully in the aftermath.

Across the tavern, Guthláf’s unusually tall frame loomed over the men and women around him, and he seemed even larger with tiny Slaga tucked as usual in the crook of his arm. He looked strong and confident and happy. And yet, to Wídfara’s eyes, he had also never looked so vulnerable. He gulped down his entire mug of ale in one long swallow, hoping it would calm his nerves but knowing that it wouldn’t.

Déorwine walked by on his way to the bar but came to a stop at Wídfara’s side, eyeing his somber face and slumped posture. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but this is a celebration, Wídfara. Maybe try to look a little less like you’re still at a funeral?”

“Aren’t I, though?” Wídfara heard the bitterness that had overtaken his voice but was powerless to moderate it. “Maybe it’s not today, but it feels like it’s only a matter of time now.”

“Come on, you don’t know that. It’s a perilous job, but he’s a formidable rider.” Déorwine leaned down and put a hand on Wídfara’s shoulder. “This is something he’s always wanted, and it’s an incredible honor. Don’t ruin it for him. You’re his closest friend, and he needs you to be happy on his behalf. And if you can’t be, then maybe it’s best if you go and get some air until you can.” He gave Wídfara a pointed look but also an affectionate slap on the back before taking up his path to the bar again.

Wídfara sat silently for a few more minutes, observing the boisterous activity around him. Guthláf had taught Slaga to growl whenever women touched his arm or crowded in too close to him, using it as a convenient excuse to keep unwanted female attention at bay, and that skill was being vigorously deployed at the moment. The sight of it always made Wídfara laugh, but now even that reliable source of amusement could do nothing to lift his spirits or erase the ever-deepening sense of dread that enveloped him.

He felt Déorwine’s eyes still on him and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Drawing in a long breath, he willed himself to redirect his thoughts, to find even a single way of looking at this turn as the good news that Guthláf felt it to be. But no matter how he tried, his mind returned over and over again to risk and loss and worry. His fears spooled out like thread, stitched into every image or word he could summon and leaving behind ugly, gaping holes where he tried to pull them out. A wave of grief welled up from his chest, strong enough that it threatened to choke him if he kept sitting there. Instead, he hurriedly pushed his way up from the table and out a side door into the dark of the evening.

He wandered aimlessly for a time before finding himself near the stables, and he decided to take Cypren for a late night ride. He forwent a bridle or saddle, riding as he had done as a young man before he could afford either, and spent several long hours out in the fields and meadows beyond the city gates. As he brooded on his fears, he found that they were soon joined by both anger and resentment. Guthláf was the most important thing in his life, by a wide margin, but it felt now like he was choosing other things over him. And it hurt.

He eventually headed back into the city, knowing the guards at the gates would not be willing to admit him again if he tarried too long. He passed no one on the streets, but when he turned into the stable, Guthláf was waiting in front of Cypren’s empty stall.

“I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

“I’m sorry,” said Wídfara as he dismounted and guided Cypren into his enclosure. “I just needed to get out of there before I brought down the mood of the whole tavern.”

“And why would you have done that?”

Wídfara closed the stall door with much more force than necessary, loudly rattling its iron fittings and latches. “Because I find it hard to celebrate you deciding to throw your life away so casually.”

A long moment of silence followed as Guthláf eyed Wídfara carefully, and when he spoke, it was with gentle firmness. “I’m not throwing my life away, let alone doing so casually. I’ve worked for this job since I was a boy, and I know I can do it well. It’s a significant honor. Can you not see any happiness in that?”

“I don’t need you to earn honors. I wouldn’t care if you were never more than a simple stablehand. And honors won’t do either of us any good if they just get you killed.”

“I have no intention of getting killed.” His words came quickly, defensively. But then he paused for a moment and summoned a smile, a change of tactics. “Besides, you should have more confidence in my skill than that. Surely I can escape with only a light maiming.”

“I don’t find that funny,” Wídfara snapped.

Guthláf’s smile faded, and he sighed. “I’m sorry, Wíd. I only meant to lighten the mood, not to upset you. Or upset you further, I guess I should say. But my point is, you don’t know what will happen. You’re making assumptions – very ungenerous ones, I might add – that I just don’t understand. You’ve known I wanted this almost since the day we met, and you’ve never spoken like this before.”

“I didn’t need to speak of it before because the job wasn’t yours then. But everything is different now.” Tears sprang to Wídfara’s eyes, and he brushed a furious hand across his face to wipe them away. “Now it’s real. And now when you risk your life, you’re risking the life of someone I love.”

His words hung in the air, both of them instantly aware that this was the first time either of them had given voice to that feeling. Guthláf reached for his hand, but Wídfara snatched it back, buzzing with distressed indignation. “Tell Elfhelm you don’t accept the job,” he said. “The one you have is dangerous enough as it is. I don’t need you to make it so much worse. I won’t have it.”

“You won’t have it?” Guthláf rarely showed anger, but a spark of it flickered across his face now. “You don’t get to make that decision for me.”

Even in the depth of his own anger, a small voice in Wídfara’s mind called out to him. This doesn’t need to happen this way. Don’t hurt the one person in the world that you least want to see in pain. But, almost against his will, he doubled down instead, unable to pull himself back from the precipice where he stood. He straightened up to his full height and looked Guthláf squarely in the eye. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t do this.”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t try to change who I am,” he shot back. “You wouldn’t try to deny me something I’ve always dreamed of. Something that I’ve always been very open about. Loving someone doesn’t mean you get to control them, Wídfara.”

It had been so long since Wídfara had heard Guthláf use his full name that it sounded strange and jarring to his ear now, and it felt like a further breach between them. His stomach lurched as he heard his own next words come out.

“Well if there’s no way around this, then maybe we just shouldn’t be together.”

Guthláf flinched as though he had just been struck, caught off guard by an opponent he never saw coming. “You cannot mean that,” he said, barely audible even in the quiet of the empty stable.

The wounded look on his face nearly killed Wídfara, and the little voice in his own mind screamed at him now to take it back. Take it all back. Say whatever he had to say to make it so that his words had never been spoken. But he had no idea how to do that. Instead he stood, helpless and silent, as his heart broke in his chest.

Guthláf stared hard at him for a long minute, waiting for some word or sign that didn’t come. His chin trembled and his breath came in ragged gasps, but then he swallowed hard and turned on his heel. “If that’s what you want,” were the last words Wídfara heard as Guthláf walked into the night.

@emmanuellececchi @hobbitwrangler @konartiste @dreambigdreamz @sotwk

Dividers by @quillofspirit ♥️

Link to part 5!

And just because, here’s another glimpse of my best possible attempt at a sketch of each of the boys, Wíd on the left (he needs a moment of happiness!) and Guthláf on the right (looking serious because he’s got his Battle Face on and is already covered in dirt):

[thrymma]

Gyrda - Nearing Autumn - 1241

    Bandits, helping passersby, and the sweeping rains that promise the coming of autumn have slowed my travels. I figure I'll arrive at the swamp a week later than I had originally planned. I can only hope to find shelter before the cold really sets in. As frustrating as the delay has been, I feel adding another is necessary. My shoulders and legs ache. I feel my back can't take one more night of sleeping on the hard ground. And besides, a hot meal would be so wonderful. These dried meats and fruits begin to lose all appeal after a few weeks on the road. A night at the Winding Roads Inn would be a perfect place to rest and refresh.

   I only worry about the ownership being kind to me. Elves are not known for their warmth towards Orcs. But coin is still coin, and hopefully they will allow me to board for the night without any trouble. It is the last boarding available between here and the Olam'Azi swamp, so I will be trying my luck at the end of today's long walk.

   I know I am getting near. I can smell the cedar trees that line Lake Davore from where I breakfast now. It is a shame I do not have more time for an extended stay at the inn. It is much magical and hearty foraging I will be missing out on. Autumn brings so much life in its effort to begin the decaying of winter. I'd very much have liked to have a basket of mushrooms to take with me into my new homeplace.

[thrymma]

Gyrda - First of Autumn - 1241

   The old hag had appeared out of no where. I had been pulling my cart through a patch of especially stubborn sponge moss and was abruptly sunk ten feet below surface level in a perfectly circular pit. The wild strangeness of such a thing happening had cause me to freeze and panic all at once. The hag had peered over the edge of her handmade sinkhole and had cackled - actually laughed! I cursed her as the hole had begun to fill with putrid marsh waters. My boots and cloak will smell for days.

   The swamp hag had begun to walk away, intent on leaving me there, but had turned back only when I spoke to her in the Tindory troll language. She eyed me curiously, deciding to slowly raise the circle of earth in which she had trapped me back to its rightful position. She asked me why I had ventured into her marshes, speaking to me in the common tongue. As if to let me know she was only bullying me by pretending to not be able to understand me.

   I am settled outside of her hut now, which is so ramshackle I fear falling asleep near it. Simply turning over might bring the so called dwelling crashing down onto me. But I am also grateful, because if I were to say that I wasn't hopelessly lost I would be lying. Once deep into the swamp, it is easy to lose your sense of direction. There was no sight of the sky and my maps had been rendered useless.

   The hag tells me her name is Mizula, though she'd had to tell me three times before I'd understood through her toothless common speech, laden heavily with the Tindory accent. Whether or not it is her true name, I can't say. But I have followed her through the swamp anyway, with much caution. My wariness of her being outweighed by my need to sleep, but also by my curiosity. Who is this troll woman with such great earthen powers doing in the middle of a swamp land alone? This elder troll had snuck up on me and commanded the very soil beneath my feet to drop. The happening of it all had been so quick and precise. It was earthen magic like I had never seen before, and I must know how!

[thrymma]

Osyra - First of Autumn - 1241

   Dartura is to be named our Revered Lady in three days time. After finding her so deep in her misery, I had lost all hope of her taking the coveted seat. The very next morning she had surprised me. She had risen and dressed in her finest gowns before I had even awakened. She had ordered me to call for her transport right away, as we were to set out on a campaign like no other. I asked only once about the child and she had simply stated it was none of my concern, and it was the business of no one outside of her chambers. There had been no bitterness in her voice, but her gaze had seemed to fall far away from where we stood. 

    We silently agreed to put it aside for the time being and had put ourselves to work to put together this campaign. Many oxen were packed with home goods, clothing, books, foods, and much of Dartura's own wealth to share with her peoples in need. She spoke with every soul that would want for her attention. She had tasked two chroniclers from the Living Library to join in our travels, much to their annoyance, to record all the complaints given by the peoples. Both had their own complaints about the waste of paper and ink for such irrelevant whining, believing history to be the only matter of importance. But do they not see? History was being made before their very eyes. 

   Dartura captured the heart of every elf she encountered. Her voice rang out over every crossroads, village, and market center. She spoke of a new era and openly condemned the previous administration for their neglect. She had personally handed out dozens and dozens of care packages and coin purses, She had shared her feasts at every tavern as we traveled across the expanse of the Kaelymno borders. My admiration for her grew with every passing day. Never before had any person of import set themselves among the common and the laborers and offered their undivided attention and also backed it up with support. She was magnificent, holding the audience of every packed inn and market center, where she sat promising a better future.

   All the while she had cleverly hidden the swelling of her belly. Dully colored, flowing gowns and long shawls and cloaks did the trick. She never once mentioned it to me or her chambermaids. I can only hope beyond hope that no one had noticed. I have been ill at ease, despite the wonderment of this successful campaigning. I wish she would share with me even an inkling of her plans to deal with the coming of a bastard child just as she is to be coronated and sat in the seat of the most renown. I sit and plan her celebrations and worry it will all be for nothing.

[thrymma]

Gyrda - Nearing Autumn - 1241

    Finally, a chance to write by lantern light. My fears of the innkeeper were unfounded. I was welcomed and fed a hot meal within minutes of parking my cart outside of the Winding Roads Inn. The innkeeper is named Malphond, an elder Elf, and he has been very gracious. We talked of the weather, books, and local superstitions. He never once asked me about my travels or where I had come from. Although he did make a point to note how odd it was to meet an educated Orc. When I did not offer an explanation, he didn't push it. Instead he offered me a freshly scented blanket and a new bottle of ink. I was blown away.     

There was an odd happening, though, when I went to pull my merchant cart behind the inn. I could feel the presence of something or someone. It was well past dusk though, so I don't know if I can trust my eyes. There was no noise besides something of a splashing. I stood stock still for several minutes before deciding it was only my imagination. Or perhaps some animals at Lake Davore settling in for the night. Maybe I am more tired from the road than I realize. It is very unlike me to be spooked.

[thrymma]

Gyrda - Midsummer 1241

  I'm to head for the Ol'Azi in the morning. I will miss the company around Kentro, but it is for the best. I have run completely out of tinctures, balms, and infused bandages. The number of injured people at market was surprising. My coin purse is heftier, though I worry about the amount of bandits attacking those on the roads so often. I did spend a few platinum pieces at the wheelwright and iron goods traders. Yuka sold me a pair of new shears and offered free gossip. She tells me things grow more tense back home. Orcs are gathering in secret and planning something behind the military's back. Some believe my brother to be involved. I could have done without the news, I have enough on my mind.

       Zibbet tells me the southern most part of the swamp is a more likely area to provide some peace and quiet. He claims there are haunts about, but I fear no spirit. I'll gladly make their acquaintance if I can quickly settle with a clean spring nearby. I am more concerned about making it around the crocks, snakes, and poisonous mushrooms on my way inside.

[thrymma]

Gyrda - Midsummer, 1241

Twenty seven days have passed since I was forced from my home. Thirty days since she died.. since I was not able to save her. I've spent precious platinum on this book and quill so that I might have a way to arrange my thoughts. Time will tell whether or not it was worth it.

My time at Kentro market has been fruitful. Zibbet has been very kind to allow me to board at his tavern at a discount, but I feel I should pack up and find a place to settle myself. My supply of herbs will run out soon enough. I will be unable to continue sales without a garden and I miss being able to bathe properly. The refugee town of Tindory is tempting, but I feel a need for solitude and silence. The Olam'Azi swamp seems to be my best bet.