Hands

I woke up today and things were changed.

I looked down and my hands were not my own; no longer my heavy, calloused hands long used to wielding a sword and shield, but dark, small hands. Frail hands. A woman’s hands. They are often covered in soot, as if I had been playing in ashes. I see the bracelet on my wrist – Fae’s bracelet! What is it doing on my own wrist? I left it with her in Ost Guruth. She should be there, safe from the creeping darkness and far from the battles on the fields of Fornost.

But I am not at Fornost. I wake and I am standing in a room with strange people – an Elf. A hooded man. The room is vaguely familiar, as if once I had passed through for a night. I shouldn’t be here. I should be with my company preparing for battle. Or with Faethril in our tiny hut, the hut I built with my own two hands. My hands. Not these tiny things. I miss her.

Why do I wear her bracelet? And my necklace – the one passed down from my family from ancient times – it is not around my neck. I cannot feel its weight lying on my skin to protect me. Where did it go? Did someone take it from me as I slept? Did someone steal it?

Who stole it?

Lone Lands From Weathertop

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