[Snowdog]

The midsummer sun was well above the horizon when Hanasían arose. He had been staying at the White Horse off and on since the spring, and had been recording the deeds of those who fought in the war. His room was a cluttered collections of rolled scrolls, parchments, cloths, and other writing supplies he had gained. This Inn was his preferred place to sleep, though he would frequent some of the other Inns about town regularly to find other vets whose story needed to be told.

Last night he had gone about with his twin cousins, Frea and Folca, and they managed to put away a good amount of Snowbourne Stout in the process of the telling of tales of the Battles of the Fords of Isen with some other vets. Hanasían pulled a deep green under shirt, ragged strings hanging from where the arm caps had been, and donned his customary black leather pants and boots, and looked about for the parchments he had wrote out the night before. Finding them in the corner of his room quite crumpled. He looked at one and crumpled his face.

'That will need deciphering.'

Hanasían mumbled to himself, apalled at his slurred, mixed Rohirric and Sindarin script he used the night before. Snowbourne Stout had that way with it when one imbibed too well in its smooth, peaty demeanor. He did manage to find his way back to the White Horse and his room, but he had no idea what became of his cousins. Frea he didn't worry about, but Folca... he had not been right in the head since being clubbed by that Uruk at the Fords. He was fortunate to have lived really, only being saved because of Frea's diligence in getting him out of further harms way and back to Helms Deep. Folca was missing a hand, and spear wounds he had in his side, shoulder, and thigh. He healed pretty well physically, having learned to get by with the one hand, and only a slight limp to speak of. Some say this was due to the healing hand and lore of Hanasian's Dúnedain Chieftain that had come to Rohan by strange ways that are spoken of much elsewhere. But of Folca, he wasn't quite right, and he wouls sufferspells of seizures, or would talk seeming nonsense suddenly only m,aking sense to himself, and seemed to be slowly withdrawing into himself. But it was good last night, and he was laughing and talking well with the help of the ale.

Hanasian hoped they went on well last night, and he stowed his writings of the night before and left his room. He was met not far outside the door by running children, and he danced and dodged them as they sped down the hallway. Hanasian smiled at the growth of new life, mostly unmarred by the war and the events that led up to it. He rubbed his dry eyes and came into the common roon, bustling with the days faire, and he made way to his chair in the near corner.

It was a place he found empty the first day he had arrived, and it seemed to have been granted as 'his place' though he had not really gotten to know too many folk over the last few months. But it was noted that this day he had not rought any of his writing utinsils, and looking rather worse for wear from the night's activities, he only wanted some tea and maybe some breakfast.