Deorla

The sun rose thin and pale above the hills of Dunland as Deorla moved swiftly across the grasslands. Each step brought her closer to the Gap of Rohan, and with it, a turning point in her quiet campaign.

She had declined the offer of Galtrev’s loyalty—for now. Her words to the chieftain had been firm, veiled in smoke and patience: "When the time comes, I will send for you. When I have accomplished what I must." That time had not yet arrived. Not while her blade still moved in the dark.

Night fell upon Galtrev like a velvet shroud, and with it came the final flickers of torchlight along the crooked lanes. Deorla stood alone in the high corner of the old hill-fort, the wind teasing strands of her dark hair as she watched the lights blink out, one by one. The meeting had gone as expected.

Rauthan, ever the eager hound of older powers, had spoken boldly beneath the dark wood beams of the chieftain’s hall.

“The clans are ready. They remember the war—remember you. If you give the word, they will rally.”

The road through Enedwaith had grown too visible.

Deorla kept to the edges where she could—skirting ridgelines, walking dry creekbeds, ducking beneath the tall grass when riders passed—but there were too many travelers for her liking. Traders from the north, messengers on lean horses, even scattered Rohirrim scouts flying no banner. Every hour brought hoofbeats or voices. Every face was another set of eyes she didn’t trust.

The wind blew sharp and dry across the plains of Enedwaith, raking the tall grass like a thousand whispering hands. Deorla made camp in the shallow basin of a rocky hollow, flanked by scraggly bushes and windswept dirt. Night fell without ceremony, the stars cold and clear overhead. She kept no fire—there was no need. She had slept in worse places, and in far darker lands.

But the dreams came quickly that night.

The warmth of the sun clung to the air as Deorla spent her first day in the modest riverside village. It was a peaceful settlement tucked between hills and waters, unassuming in its rhythm of life—exactly the kind of place she rarely lingered in, but for once, she allowed herself a sliver of calm.

The waters of the Greyflood lapped gently against the banks, whispering secrets of the wild lands beyond. Deorla trudged along its side, the soft squelch of mud underfoot a steady reminder that she was far from any well-trod path. Her new outfit, crafted in the quiet weeks before all the turmoil on the East Road began, fit her like a second skin.