Pren

Gwennol knelt before the fire, as a thick white plume of smoke rose, fragrant with herbs thrown in among the oak logs. She watched the flames, her eyes slightly dark underneath and she murmured a repetitive chant, rolling her thumb against the antler charm around her neck. Pren had been gone for weeks on the errand that sent him north with the man who had been at times both friend and enemy. Her worry grew as the time passed, not only for her journey home but that the man she had come to look to as a protector and friend, now future husband, had not returned.

It felt like he was moving for a long time but he didn’t have the strength to open his eyes, at some point he heard some growls, Pren’s image came to mind but he still didn’t open his eyes. Hours or days later, he couldn’t know, he heard some growls again, and someone cursing, he opened his eyes and saw Pren, ready to attack, or rather bite someone, he also saw that both men were in a cart travelling, he couldn’t say where.

The fire crackled the skin of the rabbit roasting on the spit, the small it of fat sizzling and bubbling. Gwennol shifted it away from the flames as it started to scorch and then sat back down, tossing some small bits of raw meat to Cysgod who opened his beak to snatch them out of the air. The shadows danced on the crumbling stone walls that surrounded her camp site and she could see the moon reflecting of the still waters of Nen Harn. Gwennol looked up at a sharp rawk sound from the craban who moved to perch on her shoulder. 

When Gwennol arrived back at her campsite, she saw Pren was awake. He sat on the ground, his long legs sprawled out as he gazed into the flames of the fire he must have rebuilt from the smoldering ash of the morning. He had a pensive or bored look on his face, she was no sure which as his beard hid so much of it and over half his visible face there was a smear of red ochre, three lines to be exact. War paint, she recognized, still fresh and wet. 

Gwennol listened as Pren explained how the people he had met on his first journey to the north had accompanied him south, only betray him and leave him for dead. He spoke of dark figures firing arrows, swift and strong they were but he did not see their faces. All he knew was that he had lived and lusted for revenge against the faithless man who he believed was behind it all. It was a fight with this man that left him in such a state and once again, they had tried  to kill him. Tying him and leaving him to drown.

It was a man, a large man with swarthy skin, a thick beard and fierce dark eyes. Gwennol instantly recognized the look from his face to the fur and leathers he wore. He was a man of Dunland, her own kin and so very far north. Quickly she bent to untie the waterlogged rope that bound his arms and she noticed the blood stained wet clothing and a large slash in the tunic. His long hair was matted with mud and lake weeds tangled in the braid and she could see bruises and cuts on his arms and hands.

The village on the hill was her destination, Gwennol was certain of it and yet she was confused as to why. The symbol of the boar was everywhere, on banners and carved from stone and spouting water. In the fields surrounding the town, there were signs of boars in the field. Her heavy drab robes dragged against the cobblestones and she saw the stares and gawking mouths as she passed by the merchants at their stalls. The common tongue was spoken here and she could understand more than what she could speak back. Her craban cawed and flapped his wings, setting on her shoulder.

The wood cracked in the campfire sending sparks into the sky. It was a cold night, but the warmth from fire allowed for a comfortable evening. It was a perfect night for story-telling, and Lilu spun her tale, revealing one more of the Dunlending legends from the treasury of her folklore.