Howling Fjord

It’s the small sounds, their absence, that I notice the most.

This morning, I did not hear Calida tearing up earth in the backyard, and I did not hear the scrape of Chesric’s boots on the upstairs floor. Always as quietly as he could, it seemed.

We’d fixed up the best space - the old Jarl’s quarters - for him. Every blanket and fur and ( Read more... )