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. Enough for all of the Hammers and the Arrows combined, she wagered.
And she was not wrong. Scouts from the Arrow had reported sightings of a giant clad in armour of frozen ice near the camp, and the day afterwards a young archer with tousled sandy hair had rushed into camp, saluting Lord Dolthafaer and informing him of large tracks leading to the south. The Hammer had readied for battle, along with the Arrow and several warriors from the Warband of Imladris. Makanárë had slung her hammer Nármaitë across her back and joined her comrades, eager to be off. There was no giant in the end, but an enormous beast with shaggy grey fur and two curved horns. It was stupid and easily bewildered as the Hammers charged, over the twang of bowstrings and the sound of arrows whizzing overhead. Yet not all escaped its fury unharmed - a warrior from the Warband sustained severe injuries, as did the sergeant Daegond. Makanárë stood to one side, watching, as Lord Veryacáno cut a horn from the fallen corpse and raised it aloft. A fine trophy for the Hammers, she thought with a satisfied smirk.
She retreated into the shadows of the camp as evening fell, content to look over her weapons and see which had borne the brunt of the day's fighting. There would be more foes ahead, she was sure of it. And her hammer and blades would be ready for them.
