The Search for Themodir

The past few weeks had been long and exhausting. By some miracle, Belethoriel's party did not run out of supplies, and made it to Gath Forthnír alive, though spent and battered. Though Cúrandir had sustained no serious wounds, some of his comrades were not so lucky. Their healer, Laurelindo, had fussed over the injured, and became very irritated when some, like their quartermaster Ancalasse, refused to admit they needed treatment.

The darkness settled, thick and cloying, over the rocky cliffs guarding the entrance to the Rift. Huddled in a cleft below the bluffs with the rest of the party, Cú​randir drew his cloak about himself tighter as the chill night wore on. Close behind him came the raspy breathing of the two warriors he and the others had rescued - Themodir and Belorion. He had not expected that they would make it this far, when he had decided to join Belethoriel and his company in Gath Forthnir.

Cúrandir flexed a wrist idly, staring out over the black void that yawned beneath him. Five or six other elves were gathered around on the ashen-grey bluff behind him, all talking in hushed voices. He glanced at the other archer standing guard for the company - Dolthafaer, he had said his name was. Cúrandir had to admit that the other ellon had a way with the bow that spoke of centuries more experience than even he possessed.