war

The night air was thick and damp as Deorla reached the lowlands where Ithilien’s greenery withered into pale reeds and stagnant pools. A ghostly mist rolled over the earth, swallowing the moonlight until only her breath and the faint drip of water could be heard.

She had traveled for hours without rest—north, then east, always keeping the stars of Eärendil behind her. Her cloak clung wet against her armor, and the scent of rot grew stronger with every mile. At last she found a rise of broken stone above the marsh and made her camp there, too weary even to eat.

Knackered Neekerbreeker

The tavern of Knackered Neekerbreeker buzzed with the hum of conversation, but none spoke louder than the old man by the hearth. His voice, raspy and sharp like dry grass, carried above the clatter of mugs and laughter.

The lands of Anórien stretched before Deorla like a tapestry of shifting hues. Beyond the waterfalls and borders, the countryside was dotted with half-abandoned farms, their fields thin and tired from years of war. Gondor was healing, but the scars were deep, and such scars could be used.

The night was ink-dark, and only the breath of stars shimmered faintly above the towering forests of the Aldburg Wood. Deorla rode in silence, the hooves of her mount—the Harbinger—striking the mossy floor like low drums of war. The creature was bone-armored and wreathed in withered leaves, a beast born of shadow and decay. 

The golden light of early morning filtered softly through the latticed shutters of Deorla’s hidden house. The air held a rare stillness — not the kind that comes before a storm, but the quiet pause before history begins to turn again. Outside, birds stirred in the brush, and smoke curled gently from the stone chimney. Inside, Deorla stood before a shape half-concealed beneath the floorboards — a white chest, pale and cold like ice, as if winter itself had been shaped into wood and steel.

The sun was beginning to set behind the white peaks of the Starkhorn as Deorla stepped into the small fenced paddock behind her secluded home. Firebryn stood there already, brushing down one of the four horses that had belonged to Deorla—now well-groomed, well-fed, and visibly pleased to have their mistress home again.

“You kept them in fine shape,” Deorla murmured, trailing her hand over the flank of a dark bay mare.

The road stretched endlessly before her, beaten and dry beneath the early summer sun. Deorla walked—her boots scuffed, legs sore, cloak tight around her frame. She had no horse anymore.

But she was used to walking.

The land itself seemed at peace now. She saw no riders, no merchants, no enemy scouts. Even the wind was calm. Fields rolled on her left and right, broken only by distant fences or rotted wagon wheels half-swallowed by tall grass. For the first time in weeks, there was no urgency behind her steps.