Lilleduil

Dolthafaer stood still and straight at his post, keen eyes moving restlessly over the view before him – snow, for the most part, broken only by the pathetic silhouettes of tall spindly trees and ancient hunks of rock.  The camp was silent below him, save for a few moving carefully amongst the sleeping company. 

It was a quiet watch. 

Peaceful. 

Next morning I returned to the Hall of Fire and met with a very hearty welcome. Sogadan had reserved some cake from the previous night's table, and he observed it would be more plentiful had I visited him sooner, but I did my duty to what was left.

Thendryt wiped the blood off his face. He stood and gazed for a moment, in the middle of the battlefield. They were outnumbered, but not outmatched. Not at all.
Khalis was in the middle of close combat a distance away from him. So was Lilleduil, an equal distance in the other direction.

My lord,

What were they doing here? What was he doing here? He didn’t belong to the south, he belonged to the north. Towards Angmar. Thendryt didn’t understand. The real threat was to the north, not here in Dunland.
“Problem, Thendryt?” Khalis asked. They had been following the river southwards for days, yet there had been no sign of activity.
“No.” Thendryt replied. “That’s the issue. There’s no problem.”
“What do you mean?” Khalis asked.

“As you requested, Elisbeth.” Khalis said as he dismounted. The ride to Echad Dagoras had gone smoothly, even for Thendryt. Then again, his wounds were healing nicely and they weren’t severe. Bovad had appreciated the ride, he could tell. Poor horse had been in a stable for far too long.
“And how did you come to this place?” Elisbeth asked.
“On horses, Elisbeth.” Khalis replied. Thendryt tried, very hard, not to laugh out loud at that remark. Elisbeth did not look amused.