Tashdel

Tashdel recalled that when she was a child, her mother would tell her stories: Some were stories about heroes of old, about the slaying of dragons or monstrous wolves where great renown was won. About mighty kings and queens draped in gold and precious gems or even of the strong Fathers of Men, who became fast friends with the Elves.
But there were also stories of another kind. Of sorrow and grief. Of the horror of battle and the blood and the slaughter. The ruin of beautiful things and the downfall of majesty.

The fire had petered out a while ago, but neither Belegos nor Tashdel could remember when. The embers glowed deep orange in the pile of ash that was between them and the smell of smoke was strong in their nostrils.

The night brought with it a slight chill, but the warmth from the small camp-fire kept it from the elves. The two of them had found a small dell when the sun had starting to lower in the sky, and with no urgency, had set up a camp to rest for the night. One of them was tall and confident in his surroundings, his face half hidden in the growing darkness by the green hood that covered his head, hiding his long, brown hair. His clothes were a rich green also which helped to hide him in the surrounding shrubs and undergrowth.