In the wake of recent events, the woman from Ta'Ven found herself more than a little idle. Food stuffs had been stored before the cold weather had come. The horse and foal had plenty of feed and hay.

Walks were preferred, but every great while, Sesian found she cared to ride instead. When the door of the old wood cutter's cottage was closed behind her, she drew the thick, heavy pelisse of russett wool that was lined with ermine fur about her form. Towards the saddled Sable, she moved and mounted the black coated horse. A shift of her form in the saddle, she arranged layers of grey skirts.

Hands within the gloves Guthorm had bought her years ago, dark fingers curled to the reins and set the horse moving from the northern slop of the lands known as RhyDin towards the infamous and very diverse sprawl of a city below.

Hooves plodded the path they had many times over the decade since her first coming to the land. She remembered hunting for a Sister here and finding her dead body. She could remember the acrid smell of the ceremonial pyre and those who had attended it all those many years ago.

Here was a land that was as kind as it was cruel. As giving as it was denying. For many it was a place of love and hate that was oddly balanced. Children without parents, many without a family at all, enemies with friendly faces, or some who seemed to know everyone and was related to almost that many.

As the lithe woman's thoughts traipsed from one thing to another, angular visage faced into the cold, Winter wind. Her hair that was as pale as newly fallen snow fluttered about her shoulders. She could recall, through the eyes of others, that her hair had ot always been that color. Black, it had been when she was a child. Dark as pitch. And her eyes that were a faint shade of blue had once been a startling darker hue.

The use and guardianship of the Tomrack had done both to her. Though she appeared to be a woman in her early thirties, she was nearly three times that age. Again, age was not what had turned her hair the color it was. With every use of the Tomrack Stone, it took the pigment from the user's gaze and hair.

She habitually tugged the garment about a very narrow waist as the wind whipped up again. A ride through the lands. That was what she was out to do that day, still beyond its walls.

The snow had not allowed for much travel. Even with thick boots keeping his feet dry, his cloak did not keep the cold moisture at bay for very long. With such perpetual precipitation, he had taken to staying close to the city's borders, to keep warm and dry when the need arose. The sun had just scraped the horizon when he had made his way into the forest to fill his senses with the refreshing scents of sounds of the wild.

He broke the border of trees just as the first throng of denizens made their traipse through the street to see to their business. The chill had begun to set in when he made his way south and west through the streets, taking the back alleys and shortcuts he knew toward the Marketplace.

The fountain's water still flowed. Some manner of magic that some of the city's hired magicians performed allowed it to operate even in the coldest of conditions. He turned south at the main thoroughfare and avoided eye contact with most of the citizens who watched him walk along in a manner that radiated violence with every deft stride.

Though he walked at a leisurely pace, without purpose, he found his way to the Forge not soon after he had left the fountains. The storefront, even in the snow was open, but heat from the forge melted the snow away from the entrance. He stepped inside and immediately pulled his cloak from his shoulders, hanging it on a peg in the corner of the store.

Jon Henri always seemed tireless in his effort. The hammer he wielded would have ripped most men's shoulders from the socket if they had attempted to swing it in the manner that he did, yet he held it aloft and brought it downward as if it weighed nothing. He repeated this process without any signs of duress upon his face or in his immense body. The work was a trance for him, he went from heating the metal, to shaping it, to cooling it all with smooth motions.

He had just stepped away from the large forge in the back corner of the room to lean over his anvil when Hawk came through the opening in his store. He waved a large, gloved hand over to his brother and gave him a kind smile. "Has the cold chased you indoors again my brother?"

Even as she touched the cloths, she heard a hammer striking anvil.

Swarthy visage lifted and she listened again to easily find the direction it had come from. Not three paces in that particular direction and the noise had stopped for a while.

Mudflecked skirts dragged over the snow and ice covered cobblestones, drudging through mud and earth where the cobbles were missing. The smells of the market lightly assaulted her senses, but she continue on through the area and towards the blacksmith's shop. There was more than one blacksmith in all of RhyDin, but this one was not alone. And his company was known to her.

At the entrance, darkly fleshed hand met with the door of it and brought it open slowly to find them both in talks.