Barrow Fields A sword day; a red day.

Midday of the 11th.
6 — HCM roll.

The marsh north of the weeping trees was gross. Never before had the boy been keen for a bath, but after hours of toiling to cross through the weak, sopping earth with its nests of trees and curving roots, he emerged upon the edge of a ravine; from there Ro hunted for a path across. Hours, hours and hours, so much work for someone who had once lived a luxurious lifestyle (by comparison to the toil of being in the wild anyway) — Rohirrim needed to rest, but he needed to eat, and he needed shelter. He needed so much more now and the sense of freedom he'd initially discovered had faded with the growth of his needs. As he rose up on the other side of the ravine and found himself on more even terrain he could look out across the world, but he saw nothing. Endless rolling hills, waves and waves of grass — it was like a massive park, and for a moment he felt terror, thinking he had somehow returned to the horrible place with his horrible people hunting for him.