Luthelian

Luthelian stood, considering the items upon her bed: rope, extra clothes, a leather satchel containing a needle and some thread, and a water skin. These, she had pulled out from the corners of her room or bought at the market. She had never been on a longer journey before; her only experience was scouting, a couple days at most, with her father upon the Moors.

The ruins of Delossad were usually never completely quiet. Birds nesting in the forgotten halls, or the wind howling through narrow passages usually gave the darkness character. Not tonight. Tonight, Thendryt heard nothing, save from his own boots and breathing. Even though he was wearing chainmail, he was usually able to sneak in the darkness. At least to an extent. But the silence that surrounded him was treacherous, and each little chain in his mail seemed to make some kind of crackle.

Dolthafaer frowned at the still form of Laelas – the name of the injured Elf they had come across in the darkness of Delossad – lying sprawled upon a thick bed of grass and half-closed flowers.  He was a Wood-Elf, friend of Barangolf and Tinurendis, one of those missing from the caravan that they had been searching for in the Hithaeglir. 

Dolthafaer halted at the head of the stairs and cast his eyes over the shadowed courtyard below.  To his staggering relief, Yrill was not to be seen.  She must have reached the shelter of the pillars.  He had not heard the sound of an arrow being released, but even so – this was an enemy that did not deserve to take down his huntress.

There were Men of the North in the Trollshaws. 

Dolthafaer had not been expecting trouble on this routine patrol.  It had simply been an excuse to leave the Valley for a day or two and stretch his legs over familiar paths.  He had asked Yrill and Luthelian to join him almost as an afterthought; he wished to see how his most troublesome recruit was improving, and he knew better by now than to leave Yrill behind when there was even the smallest chance of adventure.

She stood, face turned to the west, wind whipping her hair into an unruly mess, and watched the dying light vanish beyond the vale of Imladris. Standing on a high rocky ledge north of the valley, Makanárë spared a brief glance downwards, watching as the lights of Imladris glimmered below. It had been a long day, and she rolled her shoulders once before thoughtlessly pulling out a dagger from her gauntlet and twirling it in one hand.

He glanced sidelong at Dolthafaer, who shrugged slightly, stepping back a pace to afford more privacy. Always discreet, the Arrow Lord, thought Parnard.

Dear Gwanûr,