“ What of these many things do you know about The Hand?”
The voice was clear and lyrical, with a certain highborn arrogance to it. All eyes turned toward the corner by the door, where the owner of the voice stepped forward. She was tall for her race, about five foot, eight inches, and she walked with the quiet grace of authority.
She wore a light greyish blue riding costume with an over tunic of doe hide reaching below the knees. Her leather boots and woven trousers were covered in some deep reddish copper substance that could have been mud, or blood. A leather belt held a finely tooled leather scabbard and sword, which hung on her left hip. Her silvery blonde hair was tucked behind her elven ears, and hung loose below her waist.
“Who might you be, then?” The woman who was not truly named Brynawyndil, queried.
“I might be the one person sent by the gods to help you, but then again, I might not be. I am Daugleriadhwen.”
Errol stared at her in awe. He understood the Elven tongue fairly well, and he knew the name meant 'adored warrior.' He had heard legends of a woman with such a name, but surely this was not the same person.