Hrothgard

Focus.
*Giggles*
I recall how often Hroth says that to Terri. But it is true.... I should focus on these stitches. Here as I wait for my love to awaken. Sitting and trying to sew the neatest of stitches for a gown I shall wear on that day Relius wishes me to be his Queen. But my talents lie with cooking and baking, distilling and the mystical properties of herbs and roots as they both transform taste and cure or protect.

Ah, protection... I wove a wedding wreath of myrtle for Hroth, with the love of a sister in it. And all the many sweet-smelling flowers in Terri's chaplet were there to enhance the love of that day and protect her.

*The hem drops to her lap as she gazes at the swallows darting beyond the window, up betimes as she is. Falling into reverie*

They needed that protection ...though Aurelius had it all well in hand, as always.

Wulfran raised his hand in greeting, as his dapple grey mare cantered east past Karone's post, glad he was far enough off to be spared verbal greetings. He needed the time alone. He liked Karone and had almost choked on his ale when she called Vhaelon, petty dictator that he was revealing himself to be, "Centurion Blondie" and the expression frozen on the officer's face was priceless. The smile that was starting at the memory died as he remembered the immediate aftermath, the punishment issued for a tavern house jest, the insistence on southern frivolities in a room full of off duty Cimmerian mercs. No, these weren't flower wearing Aquilonian dandies, with their shiny buttons and pretty parade maneuvers; these were killers from the cold, harsh Northlands. These were the reavers that still gave northern Aquilonians nightmares when the name Venarium was whispered.

“Invicta!”

Aurelius pounded his chest with his fist, smiling broadly at the men and women seated in the dim confines of the Green Man Tavern.

“Invicta!” Ceara, the sullen-eyed barbarian replied gruffly.  “Invicta!” came the call around the table.  Aurelius smiled at them again and turned, pushing the creaking door of the tavern aside and stepping into the cool night air of Old Tarantia.  The smile faded from his face as the door closed behind him.

Satisfied no one was following him, he knelt down in the dark corner of the alley, resting one hand on the hard stone wall and retched.  Years of drinking, living on the march and hard living had given him the ability to empty the contents of his bowels on command and he used that ability to remove the remaining ale from his stomach.

He had no desire to be drunk.  That made it worse.