[i]No farewells, no goodbyes.[/i] Domund silently sharpened his dirk, in the company of burning candles, the rest was a deep darkness. It was here he grew and pondered, while his brother bathed in luxuries, and his sister had been quietly isolated from near everybody, resigning only to her teachers and her mother. The poor girl will grow surrounded by calvous men with bollocks to their knees and her 'lady mother', who sends her children off to spill blood without even meeting them in person. 

[i]"Domund, raise a thousand men and rush to the aid of Lord Solterra Behringer."[/i] 

He frowned. Rushing to aid a man who was brave enough to call his mother a whore an annum afore, not as if he was protecting his mother, the Behringer fellow seemed to be half correct. And yet.

He stepped out to the courtyard, the dusk slowly showing its' hideous physionomy at this time of the day, and the sight of bare, crying dead trees outside the fortress hadn't made it better, everich of them screaming of inconstancy, the death of life. He pulled on his black gloves, repulsed by his skin. Many times had the healers come to him when he was a toddler. And even now he grimaced as he saw it; red open sores covering the surface, no matter how much herbal oinments and emmolients were rubbed on it, sometimes it eased the disease, but it will never heal. 

So is The Wound, rotting and dying.

[center]*[/center]

Finally, she could rest when she arrived back at her court. She could enjoy the sight of her lands, magnificient and dark at the same time, and even if the dreary grey walls of her keep weren't much distinguishable from the one of Jarl Haraldr's hall, it was still a welcome sight. Her guard had also became tired from the way back from Jorvik, and rested. [i]I am back.[/i] She thought. [i]I shall begin my way south, to the lands of House Trisch.[/i]