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Bregoware
Of course they were almost ready. It wasn't as if she would've not taken the time to pack up anything that wasn't needed (which of course nothing was)... it wasn't as if they hadn't taken time to eat. But some things went unspoken, perhaps for the greater good of the party, and perhaps for not.
Eostre didn't care. This was only the first step, after all. Standing beside her horse, she stared across the river. It was a bit narrower here, a bit shallower, but still swift from the nearby mountains—fortunately it was late fall, not spring. There was no melted water runoff to sweep away the horses and riders into the icy maw of death that surely waited beyond the bends and rapids.
The river was their enemy, sure as the orcs and wolves preying upon villages.
The sun gleamed off of the river, as cold as the chilly wind. Eostre tugged her robes tighter about herself, sipped the remainder of her soup down and stashed the tin cup. Surely they'd leave soon...
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