Ferawyn

Dawn was nearing. Akashpug, the chief of Târ Stazg, rubbed in his eyes and yawned. He looked around his tent. He sniffed in the air and soon a surprised smirk came on his face.  Slowly did he whisper to himself, still sleep disorientated: ''What smells so good? Man flesh?" The Uruk crawled out of his tent and rose up, looking at the sight before him.

(OOC: This story is based on a RP event based on /roll outcomes)

Daellas walked around the battlefield looking for his javelins. The ground was full of dead wargs and goblins, the crows were now feasting over their rotten corpses. He saw one javelin sticking out of the ground. He remembered when he threw this one.

She could still hear the laughter in her ears. It was a joke, right; a jest seeping truth, though.

Tidhelm is struggling for some sleep at her feet, all wrapped up in furs and rope, the gagging cloth still tugged in his mouth. He seems harmless for now, perhaps she can dare a short walk around the camp. She needs to be alone for a while.

Face the truth, Melowen. You can do it. You must do it.

It is night, the air is clear and the stars shine brightly over our camp. I am sitting watch once more, I think we finally made it out of those troll-infested cursed woods. Ruins of old elvish towers can be seen on the high ridges to the south. These are the fields of the dried up rivers we passed over a month ago.