Third Age, Enedwaith

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Two distinct sounds pierce through the silent forest. On the distant shore of a flowing river, a Quenyan battle cry can be heard clearly. Ugly mutterings of the four yrch follow. 

Then, a sharp scream. The silver-haired elf on the far shore pauses in his attacks, eyes wide in panic. Distracted by the scream, Ithilwe slips and falls to the ground, the bank slippery and wet.

“Get up,” she said harshly, tapping her boot lightly against his back. Amathlan felt himself stir out of his slumber, the darkness of the cell obscuring any details he could make out. Another kick came at his back, this one much harder. “Get. Up.” She insisted again. 

Disaster.

It was a disaster from the start. The scouts tasked with reconnaissance along the northern borders reported the enemy’s army to be of “manageable” size, whatever the hells that meant when there was a dragon among them. The horde they were facing however was way, way larger than expected, yet despite this the host of Nargothrond went forth with King Artaresto leading alongside Túrin. Needless to say none could withstand the assault of the dragon Glaurung and the elves were driven back into the field of Tumahalad.

Elias listened for the faint click of the lock after turning the key to close the infirmary for the night. There were no patients that needed to be taken care of which left him free to return home. 

Were you born in a cave now?

Do you live in a cage now?

If you burst into flame now

The harvest of Yavanna and the founding of Nost Giliath