Makanare

With a thud, the smithing hammer clattered to the floor. Makanárë stared at it blankly, eyelids drooping. How long had she been in the forges? Hours? Days? She had lost count. Glancing at the polished steel blades which lay on the table before her, she nodded in satisfaction. All the commissions which she had received in the past month lay finished and ready to be delivered, as finely hammered and polished as she could manage.

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.

The tramp of steel-shod boots grated upon pale flagstones as Makanárë strode up the path, face grim. Overhead, the stars glimmered pale and distant, while the closer lights of Imladris blinked and faltered  in the cool breeze. Her steps did not waver, feet leading her up a grassy knoll until she stood beside a simple cairn, newly made.

No prisoners! No mercy!

The warhammer on his back moved.

It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible but restless, terribly restless.

They had arrived at camp in the Hithaeglir without much incident, Makanárë could admit. The long march from Imladris had been uneventful, but still her heart soared as the path climbed higher and the air thinned. The keen bite of wind upon her face only served to heighten her senses, stirring them up into a constant awareness. Finally. Here she was, among the other warriors of the Order of the Hammer, marching behind the lords of the House. Grimly she laid her hands upon the hilts of her swords. There would be foes enough to slay in the Hithaeglir.

Makanárë stood poised on the practice field, chain-mail gleaming in the pale morning light. It was still early enough that the field was deserted, occupied only by the mute figures of training-dummies and the occasional trespassing bird or squirrel which crept in from the nearby trees. With an impassive face she began to put herself through the paces of the sword-exercises she had practiced every morning without fail since she had forged her blades. The motions were slow, deliberate.