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Scyld
This shirt would certainly have to be washed before he wore it again, Scyld mused as he juggled the muddy potatoes in his arms and looked about for a place to put them. He was interrupted from his task by the sound of a familiar voice, however, as he looked up to see Rowenna standing there. A glimmer of a true smile crossed his face before settling into something more reserved.
"I greet you, Nydfara. It has been years. Who brings this food?" she asked.
He felt suddenly guilty – it had indeed been a long time. Had she thought to hear from him? Did she intend for him to feel this way? Surely not – he must be reading into her words that which was not there. Better, safer, to focus on her question.
“Well, I helped to bring it,” he remarked smartly, “but Athanar’s son Wilheard led our convoy, and the food was sent by the King from Edoras.” He paused. “How have you fared, these last few years?”
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