Misty Mountains Campaign

Aldúya, the 49^th day of Lairë

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The tramp of steel-shod boots grated upon pale flagstones as Makanárë strode up the path, face grim. Overhead, the stars glimmered pale and distant, while the closer lights of Imladris blinked and faltered  in the cool breeze. Her steps did not waver, feet leading her up a grassy knoll until she stood beside a simple cairn, newly made.

Luthelian stood at the edge of camp, scanning the surroundings for any movement. She paused, her eyes resting on a tall stone figure standing in the distance with its back to the imposing cliff wall.

To the Lord Ambassador of Bar-en-Vanimar Parnard,

It is with a heavy heart that I write this letter to you. When your lordship left for the Hithaeglir, little did I know that my duty would require me to bear sad tidings to you through my letters. I had one in progress since the last report I sent, and it consisted of all important matters, such as the latest speculations of the valley folk and the tale of an escaped chicken from the kitchens, but the contents of that report matter very little now.

Dolthafaer crouched over the corpse of a goblin lying face-down in the snow.  Two arrows protruded from its back – one was broken, perhaps tread upon by its own brethren as they fled the mighty company of Vanimar and Warband, but the other was intact.  He yanked the unbroken arrow free from the corpse and bit back a wince as he felt an answering stab of pain in his shoulder.

Remain within the keep, he had told them.  Rest.

A simple order. 

Clear as crystal. 

A storm had been brewing – always perilous, this far East in the Hithaeglir – and up until that point, his scouts had been working tirelessly, alternating between watch and patrol.  There had been no need for extra eyes in a blizzard.  He had wanted them to take the opportunity to rest, regain their strength.

Yrill had disobeyed him. 

Tancamir had disobeyed him. 

Dolthafaer knew that he was treading upon thin ice – an analogy that seemed fitting in the bitter cold of the Hithaeglir.  A spark of uneasiness had lit in him the moment the Man had turned his back on him in the snow, his final words twisting in the wind. 

Choose well, Lord of the Arrows.

Luthelian rested her hand against her forehead, the dizzying effects of her head injury not entirely having left her.

“For the remainder of this mission, your duty is to watch the camp. You will not wander from your post.”

“But, my lord! That is unfair. I can help the others scout.” Surely, he would not make her entirely useless during their time in the Hithaeglir. Her head pounded more as her temper rose.

The icy wind came to meet her in great force as soon as she opened the heavy iron door to the outside. The storm still raged on, winds howling across the mountainsides, sweeping the snow across the landscape. Yet it was better than the confines of the inner keep, packed to the brim with warm bodies and stale air. Besides, it was nearly stifling to be in such close proximity with Tancamir any longer.