Rowenna
Rowenna stood in the wind and cold, standing on the peek of the final rise of the Scar. She looked out over the vastness of the plain, wrapped in a warm cloak. The snows were thawing, but it would take much more warmth of the sun for all to be turned to spring floods. She came out here often, in part to be away for a little while from the distress of the starving folk; but also to be alone with her thoughts.
She had told Nydfara how it had been for her among the brigands in the White Mountains, how she had risen from slave to leader in all but name. It had been four long years since that moment, and he might be dead for all she knew.
There was noise in the burg, a bustle of activity from the sound of it. What could have happened to cause anything like it in the starving place? She turned from the emptiness and retraced her steps.
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