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Old 04-22-2006, 01:05 PM   #258
Anguirel
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Join Date: Mar 2005
Location: The 1590s
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The words Manawyth had tentatively addressed to Thornden after his first song were, he hazarded, to an extent coming true. For many days the Dunlander had marshalled his strengths and tried to groom his mind into the habits of the Rohirrim. He talked little, but often listened gravely; practising when he was alone, and this manner his speech of the Mark was much improved; the grammar almost faultless, and only marred by the Dunlending lilt. At the same time, he paid attention to the Mead Hall's harp, carressing its strings. The instrument was the truest friend he had won here so far. When he tried it, he remembered his brother and another life, and wondered if the happiness of that life could grow again in this peaceful exile.

When he heard of the horse fair that was to occur, Manawyth took it as a sign from the gods of old. The black horse in the stable was one of his few remaining possessions that tied him to Dunland-perhaps the last. He had sold his sword days ago, on the evening he had sworn to renounce battle. He even cut his dark hair as much as possible alike to one of the Riders now.

So, yes. He would seize this day. He would go directly to the Fair and offer his steed for sale. It would not grieve him to lose it; it was a fine animal, a great stallion, but suspiciously fine; and it had links to a past he would rather have forgotten. To the stables he went with determination on his one-eyed face.
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