A hero, a soldier, a friend, a warrior.
Valiant is he, who fends for another.
The grand caballero, the one to free.
The Valiant Hero, the Valiant Hero is he.

The freer, the seer, the power of the stars.
It is he who wields it, returns what is ours.
The majesty of Earth is what we will see
The Valiant Hero, the Valiant Hero is he.

(This was also from an old story [different old story] that I wrote when I was twelve. It's sorta like a prophecy deal, and it was a King Arthur fairy tale story. I love King Arthur stories.)
***

Wynne made it to the barracks of the keep. Warrior women jogged to and from the extensive and solid establishment. Marching girls with blonde braids swaying on their backs passed by her, their blue eyes gazing on her. They whispered behind their small, pale hands in the lilting yet hard language of Skuld. Wynne smiled and nodded to the squadron, who smirked shyly and went on their way.
She knocked on the barrack door, and a lady dressed in a soft buckskin tunic and palla answered.
“Úda’lugha?” she asked plainly.
“Gwceff,” answered Wynne as she entered.

Nóe ran down the hall.
He remembered last night as if it were a second ago. Every memory was vibrant as if it had just happened. Every single word, action, and gesture was crystal clear in his mind.
“Your brother is becoming quite destructive,” mused Lord Crofton, carelessly strolling across his throne room. “It’s become… peeving. And his dog, that mangy, rabid thing… that is a lot to take care of.” He stopped mid-step, then turned to Nóe. “Has he been this way for long?”

Wynne snapped awake and quickly pulled on a leather tunic and thick bragae trousers. She stuffed on wool boots and then proceeded to brush out her hair to the best of her ability, then she tied her waist-length locks in a high bun with her faded rose-colored silk ribbon. She sighed with nostalgia each time she laid eyes on it.

While Aloysius talked with Wynne in the stables, Sioned busied herself collecting hazelnuts at the cuff of the Tywyll. Bryngaer was well north of her, and it would take about two hours to get back home. She knew it was a ‘busy’ job to keep her from doing anything stupid, and she didn’t know what to think of that. Either way, hazelnuts were her favorite.
A feeling of someone near made her shiver. She scanned the dusk scene of the deep and dark forest, her heart pounding against her chest.

She only had her mind set on transporting the milk.
“This is the last time I ask for your help, Tesni,” Wynne growled as she hobbled from the dairy stables to the kitchen door under the weight of the two large pails, both filled to the brim with fresh, warm milk. They wouldn’t stay filled unless she got help- quick. She had accidentally splashed out more than usual.

She couldn’t remember if she screamed.
“Quit pacin’, Your Highness, you’ll burn a hole in the ground with your heels,” Aloysius remarked, leaning against a gnarled tree, arms crossed over his chest.
Her stomach hadn’t settled. Her body was sent in another tempest; this time it was a tempest of confusion, not of sorrow.

“Chance? Chance, wake up!”
He was roused by Nóe’s panicked whisper. “Wh- Nóe, what’s up?” Chance launched himself off of his travel matt and scanned the clearing. No one was there, and the fire was doused in a hurry. Breixo must have taken Arlo away while Nóe waited up for Chance.
The night was dark and only the dim crimson embers gave off light. The canopy was just dense enough to choke out the stars and the moon.

Crofton Fief was nowhere near a site where people could be found in the most ubiquitous manner.
It seemed like winter all the time. The sky was bleak and bland - there was no way to know when it was day or night. A murder of crows screeched and rested on dead black skeletons of trees that must have lived and died before the Iron Age. The air was stale, silent, still… the party, all of whom were riding towards the town, shivered with both and eerie discomfort and chilliness.

They found Chance in the stables.
But before they did, he just waited. He could hear the crowds and personnel drop into desperate clamor, and he knew that his team was successful. He found himself useless at this point in missions, given he discouraged himself from fighting. He knew he could, but experiences were burned in the back of his mind. They held him back. Even sparring in between missions proved difficult to do. He wished he could harden up, but memories kept him soft - broken. There was no time to let his heart cool before another memory burned it in despair.