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Bregoware
Now remaining to wait for Sythric, Eostre mindlessly found that she had to count the heads of those in their party waiting before she was able to slip into the dull, yet somehow demeaning stare she ordinarily wore. Three. Meghan, her (her being Meghan) brother's friend—or at least ally, and herself. A hint of a snort crossed her face. Meghan, who dispised her, and someone who surely wore the same contempt...
But just perhaps her view had altered the smallest bit over Fionn. He made himself out to be naive, from what she had saw of him. Naive, unable to handle the terrors war would surely throw at him.
He only went with Osmod to prove a point. To prove that he was more than a farmboy, she thought to herself. Perhaps to show off for Meghan—faugh, who doesn't love Meghan? Osmod seems to show some degree of facination with her, she seems to share that, or perhaps direct it towards little Fionn...
Eostre rubbed her fingers mindlessly over her mount's ears, beginning to feel the chill of winter setting in distantly, even in warm clothing. It would be a cold ride to Edoras, if they made it that far. If there wasn't an ambush staring them in the face.
It was the cynic in her that caused her to glance back, to make certain that her baggage was still on her horse, tightly strapped where the wind wouldn't blow it away. Perhaps it's not that I'm hated, simply that I'm feared. That's going to kill us if it comes to life or death...
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