Mother and Father were fighting. In Haradric and quietly, lest Menarion take offense.
Šuraš and Ihna'a, though, kneading dough, listened anxiously.
“'The wise mourn peace passing'!” Mother implored. “Shall we abandon Dhauroš?”
“'Wicked are the hours of war,'” Father replied. “Yet comfort Dhauroš Butcher, they will worsen!”
“Have we not both kin in Harad?” Mother retorted, ere bowing to her husband.
But when the flatbread was ready, Mother slipped some into her purse with a rue-sprig, and took their pail to draw water.
The pail returned full, but not the purse. Šuraš quietly closed it.