In the morning, Royse pointed the way to the castle, wishing Rowan good fortune on her journey. She did not sleep that night, but she did learn a little of weaving. "I have promised you shelter and given you food we are not enemies." Royse set her two human hands on her knees. Little wonder her weaving fascinated humans and fae alike. The moonlight played upon her skin and the glamor broke, revealing eight eyes, two chittering mandibles, eight arms hidden beneath her stole. "My kind?" Rowan's grip tightened on her sword. Its lord died long ago-longer ago than your kind remember." "But if you are determined to continue in your quest, brave knight, there is a castle not far from here. Best to face it on your own terms," she said. "Rest will come for you, whether you like it or not. Royse, eyes flashing in the dark, tutted beneath her breath. "Rest isn't of any use to me," Rowan answered. The fae bestow gifts upon creators of beauty, it seems. Rowan has stayed in palaces less well-appointed than Royse's home. "Are you certain you don't long for it?" asked Royse, whose fine weaves even the fae have come to covet. In the small hours of the night, when they ask her why she is awake, she asks if they've heard where she might find a cure for the Wicked Slumber. Gladly the smallfolk take her into their homes, offering what little they have gladly does Rowan accept their kindness. Atop a stout horse, with a sharp blade hanging at her hip and sparks dancing from her fingertips, she journeys wherever the winds guide her. Across the valleys and into the wilds ventures Rowan Kenrith.
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