Annunghil

Every track they took was suspiciously familiar. It was fortunate that Turumor seemed to know his way around the Scuttledells, because were it not for a few landmarks, Annúngil would have believed them to be wandering in circles.

Annúngil wondered if there was a single place in Mirkwood where the eyes of the enemy did not reach. Maybe the dark caves of Scuttledells where evils more ancient than the orcs reminisced. Be as it may be, few were the times in which he did not feel watched since he had arrived in Ost Galadh.

It was not without reason, therefore, that many now called Eryn Galen, Taur-nu-Fuin, the dark forest. Others named it Taur-e-Ndaedelos instead: the Forest of Great Fear.

The scout Glorhir looked pale and his forehead shimmered as the firelight illuminated the glisten of sweat upon it. Eliriael gently pressed a cloth dampened with athelas draught to his brow as Annunghil asked him questions.

The scout licked his dry lips as he shifted up, leaning back against his bedroll. He welcomed the fluid put to his lips – warm, yet refreshing, and a subtle hint of floral sweetness. Energy returned to him as the warmth of the fluid spread throughout his body.