[hider=A short one this time. The story continues.]
This was it. The one thing he knew she knew to fear. Escape, they both knew, was useless but so was getting wet. Thus as drizzle turned into downpour the two unlikely companions retired for the evening agreeing to pick things up the next day. Of course, she could have turned around and fled. But he knew she wouldn't. Not now. Not from this.

So it was that next morning found the two sat at a table in the inn sharing breakfast, mead and chatting about the end of days. 
"How bad is it?" She asked with a deadpan tone.
"Bad.", he replied. "The marcher lords are falling. The dead walk. And there is word that the pale ones ride again."

Fiona felt confused. This was wrong, very wrong. Still, they still had the upper hand as long as...
"What of the king and his knights? Why haven't they put a stop to this?"

Her companion shuck his head depressingly.
"The king is dead. Killed in the same war that decimated his warriors. And what's left is more concerned with preserving their own fiefdoms than serving the land."

Now this was too much for Fiona. Way too much. 
"War?" she asked with visible confusion in her voice. "I've only been here a couple months. When did you people get the time to start and loose a war and let Him come back from the dead and build up strength?"

"Fiona", the knight looked at her. "You've been in here for five years."[/hider]