- Joined
- Jan 26, 2010
- Location
- Why do you care?
The room was frigid, as Brynne's eyes snapped open, her throat hoarse and dry as the scream rolled off her tongue and over her lips. Her body trembled beneath the blankets—coarse compared to what she'd been used to, grown up with. No, this was far from Dale, far from the comforts of her home. The wind rattled the window of her modest room causing her head to turn, dark eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. She gripped the blankets tightly, her hands going white and another shiver ran along her spine. Sounds of merriment were filtering up from downstairs, clearly the patrons of Pynti-Peldot were gathering together to talk of their spoils found over the course of the day. It wasn't uncommon in the frozen wastelands she now herself in now that she was north in the desolate lands of the Forodwaith.
Licking her lips, Brynne reluctantly pushed the blankets away from her body. Immediately, her pale skin was kissed with the icy chill of wintry air as it managed to find its way into the room. No matter how high the fires roared, the cold found a way into everything. It wasn't something she thought she'd ever grow accustomed to no matter how long she stayed in the frozen north.
Brynne brought her hands up to her mouth and blew a puff of air over them in an attempt to warm them. It was in vain, she knew, but the action brought comfort and she sorely needed to occupy her mind, redirect her thoughts from the nightmare invading it. Every night since her arrival in the Lossoth region of the Forodwaith—an area known as Forochel—it had been the same. She dreamed of that night of horror, that night when the walls of Dale had been breached and her home attacked. The wildmen. They'd come so unexpectedly, so swiftly. It was almost as if they'd been put up to the task since the attack had been so seemingly calculated. In the end, it had ripped her away from her home, her family, the only life she knew.
Trembling, Brynne swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran her slender fingers through dark, wavy tresses. She hadn't meant to sleep so long. Now it would be harder to sleep through the night. Now the dreams would be worse. Tears pricked her dark eyes and she went to the small lantern she'd been given to light her room and lit it. The room erupted into light, the warm glow casting a cozy and comforting ambiance that could almost make her forget... almost.
Brynne stood up and walked over to the small table and chair across the way. Next to it was a pitcher and basin she'd carefully set on the floor. Strewn across the wooden furniture, however, were clothes and sacks, the many belongings of the Lossoth given to her to mend. Mending and sewing. They were the only things she could do of any value to these people. And to think she almost never learned.
Just then, a tiny sob bubbled up from within and Brynne reached up to bury her face in her hands for a moment to try and regain her composure. No. She couldn't break. She wouldn't. It had been a month since she'd seen her home or anyone from Eriador.
Wildmen...
No. Brynne wouldn't let herself think on that time. She'd been found, brought to Forochel. She was safe for the time being in Pynti-Peldot. One day, perhaps, she'd manage to send word to her family and they could retrieve her. One day...
The music from downstairs grew louder. Brynne barely smiled. The Lossoth, or those who'd decided to drop by the Inn of the Snowy Eagle, were certainly having a good time. She wondered what sorts of adventures they'd had. Suddenly, her belly rumbled and she knew she needed to eat something. Biting down on her lip, she straightened out her dress—a simple black and red gown, warm enough, yet feminine and clearly making her stand out amongst the Lossoth tribes of Forochel and any other hunter or trader who happened to travel into the wastelands.
Quietly, Brynne opened her door and peeked outside. The hall looked dim and quiet, no one in sight. She clutched her key and leather pouch and exited her room. After locking her door, she headed for the stairs and made her way down, the music growing louder with every step she made. Apprehensive, she peered out into the main room, her dark eyes scanning the patrons as they talked and sung, some boasting about their hunting ventures or showing off their wares, others drinking and eating their fill. It was easy to tell who was Lossoth and who was not, but she... she knew she stood out even more—her clothes, her demeanor. They screamed of the south, though not of the southern lands of Gondor. Even still, she was an outsider despite the graciousness, a fine balance where just one slip might send her back out into the cold.
Brynne quietly padded out into the open, the smell of alcohol permeating the air and filling her nose. It was pungent and burned her throat. Just what sort of drink did these tribal men drink? Not used to being out amongst the patrons at such a late hour, she made her way to the bar and smiled at the barkeep.
"A glass of wine and some bread, please," Brynne stated, placing a gold coin on top of the table, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she retied her pouch and fastened it back to her hip.
Licking her lips, Brynne reluctantly pushed the blankets away from her body. Immediately, her pale skin was kissed with the icy chill of wintry air as it managed to find its way into the room. No matter how high the fires roared, the cold found a way into everything. It wasn't something she thought she'd ever grow accustomed to no matter how long she stayed in the frozen north.
Brynne brought her hands up to her mouth and blew a puff of air over them in an attempt to warm them. It was in vain, she knew, but the action brought comfort and she sorely needed to occupy her mind, redirect her thoughts from the nightmare invading it. Every night since her arrival in the Lossoth region of the Forodwaith—an area known as Forochel—it had been the same. She dreamed of that night of horror, that night when the walls of Dale had been breached and her home attacked. The wildmen. They'd come so unexpectedly, so swiftly. It was almost as if they'd been put up to the task since the attack had been so seemingly calculated. In the end, it had ripped her away from her home, her family, the only life she knew.
Trembling, Brynne swung her legs over the side of the bed and ran her slender fingers through dark, wavy tresses. She hadn't meant to sleep so long. Now it would be harder to sleep through the night. Now the dreams would be worse. Tears pricked her dark eyes and she went to the small lantern she'd been given to light her room and lit it. The room erupted into light, the warm glow casting a cozy and comforting ambiance that could almost make her forget... almost.
Brynne stood up and walked over to the small table and chair across the way. Next to it was a pitcher and basin she'd carefully set on the floor. Strewn across the wooden furniture, however, were clothes and sacks, the many belongings of the Lossoth given to her to mend. Mending and sewing. They were the only things she could do of any value to these people. And to think she almost never learned.
Just then, a tiny sob bubbled up from within and Brynne reached up to bury her face in her hands for a moment to try and regain her composure. No. She couldn't break. She wouldn't. It had been a month since she'd seen her home or anyone from Eriador.
Wildmen...
No. Brynne wouldn't let herself think on that time. She'd been found, brought to Forochel. She was safe for the time being in Pynti-Peldot. One day, perhaps, she'd manage to send word to her family and they could retrieve her. One day...
The music from downstairs grew louder. Brynne barely smiled. The Lossoth, or those who'd decided to drop by the Inn of the Snowy Eagle, were certainly having a good time. She wondered what sorts of adventures they'd had. Suddenly, her belly rumbled and she knew she needed to eat something. Biting down on her lip, she straightened out her dress—a simple black and red gown, warm enough, yet feminine and clearly making her stand out amongst the Lossoth tribes of Forochel and any other hunter or trader who happened to travel into the wastelands.
Quietly, Brynne opened her door and peeked outside. The hall looked dim and quiet, no one in sight. She clutched her key and leather pouch and exited her room. After locking her door, she headed for the stairs and made her way down, the music growing louder with every step she made. Apprehensive, she peered out into the main room, her dark eyes scanning the patrons as they talked and sung, some boasting about their hunting ventures or showing off their wares, others drinking and eating their fill. It was easy to tell who was Lossoth and who was not, but she... she knew she stood out even more—her clothes, her demeanor. They screamed of the south, though not of the southern lands of Gondor. Even still, she was an outsider despite the graciousness, a fine balance where just one slip might send her back out into the cold.
Brynne quietly padded out into the open, the smell of alcohol permeating the air and filling her nose. It was pungent and burned her throat. Just what sort of drink did these tribal men drink? Not used to being out amongst the patrons at such a late hour, she made her way to the bar and smiled at the barkeep.
"A glass of wine and some bread, please," Brynne stated, placing a gold coin on top of the table, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she retied her pouch and fastened it back to her hip.
